


"Princess of Thieves" Series

by nikkilittle



Category: American McGee's Alice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 150,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15621333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkilittle/pseuds/nikkilittle
Summary: A collection of the high points of my modern American Alice in a real Wonderland series posted in chronological order.  Minor stories not included.  Posted for ease of downloading and transferring to an e-reader.  First chapter is a table of contents with a description of each chapter.  Each chapter is a complete story.  Includes the "origin" story.Don't try to read this on a computer.  Download it and transfer the file to an e-reader.





	1. Table of Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Table of Contents with description of each story. Each chapter is a complete story. All chapters in chronological order.

Table of Contents:

Chapter 1: Table of Contents

Chapter 2: A Modern American Alice

A comprehensive description of the alternate universe of my modern American Alice who lives in a real Wonderland. It would be useful to read this before any of my stories of the modern American Alice. 

Chapter 3: Alice and Cheshire Go to Swilly's

Alice and Cheshire go uptop to a fast food restaurant, and Alice gets mistaken for a terrorist. Alice also becomes Wonderland's first pinup girl. Alternate Universe: introducing a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland. 

Chapter 4: The City Behind the Asylum

The Mad Hatter and Alice infiltrate a homeless encampment located out of sight behind the asylum behind a wall of trees. Alternate Universe: a modern, American Alice in a real Wonderland. 

Chapter 5: The Second Sword

If you could kidnap the U.S. Senate for a tour of Hell in hopes of scaring them honest, would you do it? And if you did, would it make any difference? Alternate Universe: a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland. Complete except bibliography.

Chapter 6: Dragonfly

In 2017, Alice finds herself a target for assassination and ends up in a private war against President Trump. Alternate Universe: a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland.

Chapter 7: Wastelands

In 2032, the "Princess of Thieves" leads a revolution against an abstraction. Alternate Universe: a modern, American Alice in a real Wonderland. 

Chapter 8: Things That Came

At the age of 450, Alice contemplates the world above. Alternate Universe: a modern, American Alice in a real Wonderland.

Chapter 9: Sources List for "The Second Sword"

The missing sources list for "The Second Sword" which could not be included in Chapter 5 because of the space limit for a single chapter.


	2. A Modern American Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description of the modern American Alice in a real Wonderland from my "Princess of Thieves" series.

A Modern American Alice

1\. Wonderland is a real place located in the midwest of the United States in the current era.

2\. Alice is a five-foot-tall, freckle-faced redhead who is in her late forties at the beginning of the alternate universe stories. She's a bit of a showoff and is quite vain. Alice is the party girl of Wonderland.

3\. Wonderland experienced a civil war around 1977, and is now an anarchist commune in which there is neither money nor prices.

4\. The Mad Hatter is the Thomas Edison of Wonderland, and is responsible for just about everything technical.

5\. Wonderland has computers running Linux courtesy of the Mad Hatter who refurbs computers tossed down the Rabbit Hole which people "uptop" use as a dumping site.

6\. There is no internet in Wonderland. No one could figure out a safe way to connect to the internet in Wonderland without risking the discovery of Wonderland's location. Alice and Hatter go "uptop" and use internet cafes -- often in Paris -- to connect to the internet. They usually wear a disguise when they go "uptop." 

7\. The Gnome Village and Pale Realm are the only areas of Wonderland with any organized government. The Gnomes have their village council and Pale Realm is ruled by the White King.

8\. Red Realm and Queensland are both ruins left untouched after the civil war.

9\. Everyone in Wonderland except Cheshire and later Sarah Palin is a vegetarian. Most of the food available in Wonderland is mushrooms, nuts, fruit and berries, cheese from the gnomes' goat herds, and eggs from the gnomes' chicken coops.

10\. Alice is addicted to Valrhona chocolate with the predictable result. Her size varies from 12 to 16. Think Judy Garland. At size 12, Alice is stocky and athletic looking. At size 16, she is quite voluptuous.

11\. Hatter first marries "Little Red" who runs out on him, and later marries Sarah Palin. After Sarah Palin gets eaten by a Killer Mushroom, Alice and Arianne matchmake him with Lindsay Lohan.

12\. Alice has a lover named "Arianne" whom she met in a homeless encampment. Arianne is frequently the narrator of stories, including "The Second Sword." Arianne is rather quiet, thoughtful and reflective, and is bisexual. She is a “chubby-chaser” when it comes to women. Alice knows.

13\. Cheshire can type and has a few stories of his own to tell. "A Bedtime Story" is narrated by Cheshire.

14\. The Gnome Elder narrates "The Gnome Elder's Birthday Gift." The theme is female body image.

15\. Alice turns into the Queen of Hearts -- later, Medusa -- when she loses her temper -- or takes rage potion.

16\. In addition to the weapons mentioned in the game, Alice also has a spinning top, the shrunken head of the Duchess, and a puzzle box. In "The Second Sword," she also acquires the "Angel's Sword" which reappears in "Wastelands."

17\. Alice has a bong which she fills with Caterpillar's smoke powder and lights to create portals to other places and even alternate time lines. Hatter can also blow smoke portals with a bong. In "The Second Sword," Alice acquires the ability to create portals with her mind.

18\. Alice walks around with her "Bowie Knife" strapped to her hip. It never leaves her hip -- even on trips "uptop."

19\. The ceiling of Wonderland Cave is covered in phosphorescent flowers that glow during the daytime of the world uptop and stop glowing, with a few exceptions, at night. The few flowers that glow at night provide a "twinkle" that simulates stars.

20\. The phosphorescent flowers on the roof of Wonderland Cave leach phytochemicals into Wonderland's water supply that suppress most diseases and even genetic conditions. After 30 years of drinking Wonderland's water, age progression is greatly slowed and the average lifespan becomes 500 years. Alice, Hatter, Arianne, Lindsay (Mrs. Hatter), and the Gnomes can all expect to live 500 years. Cheshire, too. The White Chess Pieces are essentially ageless.


	3. Alice and Cheshire Go to Swilly's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "origin" story of the modern American Alice in a real Wonderland. Alice and Cheshire go uptop to a fast food restaurant, and Alice gets mistaken for a terrorist. Alice also becomes Wonderland's first pinup girl.

Alice and Cheshire Go to Swilly’s

By Nikki Little

 

One of the handiest things about Wonderland is that there are so many people “uptop” who use the rabbit hole as a clandestine waste dump. Most of the stuff they throw down here is usable to some degree. For example, everybody has, courtesy of our local tech genius and electricity guru The Mad Hatter, a frankenstein Dell/Compaq desktop computer that runs Linux. You don't think we're mad enough down here to use Windows, do you? Anyway, one day another Dell desktop came crashing down the rabbit hole and the back plate popped off when it landed. When the back plate popped off, about $2000 in US currency came flying out. Now down here in Wonderland, there is no money. No medium of exchange. We all have our roles to play in this society. Bill McGill, Mr. White, and I brew up all of Wonderland's hooch. I'm also the designated slayer of our tastiest mushrooms. Unfortunately, the appropriately named “Killer Mushrooms” fight back. You gotta kill them before you can pick them. The Mad Hatter runs the electric plant, the water plant, the sewage plant, and just about anything else technical in Wonderland. Quite a few of the gnome men help him run the plants. He's our Thomas Edison and is absolutely irreplaceable. Don't ask me where daylight comes from in Wonderland. I still haven't figured that out. Nothing down here really makes sense. Anyway, the money was quite a windfall because it meant that Cheshire and I could sneak “uptop” for a shopping trip. When you consider that there's not much to eat down here besides mushrooms, nuts, berries, and the rabbit food coming out of Mr. White's vegetable patch, it's obvious that our first choice was some good old fashioned greasy American fast food. Now I'm a quasi-vegetarian and Cheshire survives mostly off of the small fish in Wonderland's streams. We needed to pick a place that serves fish. We decided on Swilly's. Now Swilly's isn't the greatest fast food from what I've heard, but they do have a reputation for consistency. I didn't want to get a half-raw fish sandwich. Cheshire obviously doesn't care if his fish is raw, but I do. We started to make our plans for the trip. 

There was, of course, no thinking involved in deciding what to wear. I had in my closet one dozen little blue dresses, all identical. All size twos. I was a really bony-looking waif. Cheshire doesn't wear clothes. Sometimes it looks like he doesn't even wear fur. Mangy cat. Oh, well...I still love him. All trips “uptop” are considered dangerous, and the next problem was deciding what weapons to take with us, just in case. Now naturally I had no desire to leave a trail of bodies behind me like I did in our civil war, so I picked out the least lethal weapons I've got: my Bowie knife and the Looking Glass which can make whatever it reflects invisible for about 20 seconds. I have no idea of how it works, but then, down here, nothing really make sense. I do know that it takes an hour or two to recharge after use. How it “recharges” is also a mystery. Oh yeah, and my spinning top. Nice little tornado it creates. Throws everything in it's path around. Non-lethal, although it'll bang anybody up pretty good. We were set.

Now you'd think that Cheshire and I would stand out like a sore thumb on a sidewalk “uptop”, but Americans are so self-absorbed and oblivious that we figured Cheshire could even get away with walking upright and nobody would notice. I didn't really look all that unusual: I was a red-haired, freckle-faced, five-foot-tall, one-hundred-pound tomboy who tromped around Wonderland with a Bowie knife strapped to her hip. I looked like Huckleberry Finn. The Bowie knife never leaves my hip, even when I'm asleep. I feel naked without it. Cheshire thinks that he is an unusually large species of domestic cat. He's a lynx. A very large lynx about the size of a cougar. I've never had the heart to tell him that he's not a domestic cat. I'm sure he'd be crushed to find out that he's a lynx from Arctic regions who somehow lost his way. Did I mention that he can talk? Oh, yes. He speaks flawless English with a charming Scottish accent. Sometimes I'd swear that he's Sean Connery in disguise. Charming rogue he is. Scrawny as hell, but then, who was I to talk? I had the shape of an underfed eleven-year-old boy. I cringed at the sight of my own reflection in mirrors. Oh well, at least I didn't look as emaciated as Keira Knightley. Somebody should hang a sign around her neck that says “Feed me.”

The usual way to go “uptop” is the catapult. Now it's one of the wonders of Wonderland that the rabbit hole looks absolutely huge when you're standing down under it: it looks so huge that it's nearly impossible for the catapult to miss the hole. Of course if it does miss, it's not really that painful. The underside of the hole is a nice soft flower patch. The bottom of the rabbit hole is also a nice soft flower patch. I'd estimate the distance at about fifteen feet. Just enough to prevent curious teenagers from throwing a rope over the side. “Uptop,” the rabbit hole looks rather small. Just big enough for two people to squeeze through simultaneously. Did I mention that it's in the backyard of an insane asylum? Oh, yes. I'm an escapee. Well, you already knew that, didn't you? I got tired of being doped up with enough drugs to kill a hippie. Anyway, there's a stream with a wooded border that's right next to the rabbit hole. A handy way to make one's way to the sidewalk in front of the insane asylum without being seen. Of course, you already know that there's a Swilly's within a mile of almost anywhere in any U.S. city. Swilly's is the only empire with more outposts than the U.S. military.

Our route was to make it to the sidewalk, turn left and walk to the intersection, and then cross the street. Just across the street on the corner was a Swilly's. It's less than a mile walk, and we in Wonderland think nothing of walking a mile. I reminded Cheshire that it was probably best for him to walk on all fours to avoid possibly distracting a driver and causing a wreck. 

We got into the catapult and Bill pulled the lever. Zoom! Up and out we went. We dashed into the shallow creek bed and made our way to the sidewalk. Cheshire remembered to walk on all fours. I was impressed. I had no need to worry. The “uptop” world wasn't like anything I remembered. I couldn't remember when I had made my last trip uptop. I had always been afraid of being recognized by a staff member at the insane asylum. I escaped when I was 19 and now I'm in my forties. Not much chance of being recognized even though I looked pretty much the same except for the addition of a few faint wrinkles on the face. Fortunately for me, Cheshire didn't seem to care about that. He was getting a few gray hairs himself. Anyway, as I was saying, the uptop world wasn't anything like what I remembered: I had never seen such self-absorbed, oblivious people. Everyone was walking around with these Star-Trek communicator devices glued to their ears. It was amazing. Gab, gab, gab... People would hold the most intimate of conversations within earshot of total strangers. I felt like a Peeping Listener. People also relayed a constant report on their whereabouts as if it were of earth shattering importance. Even people driving around in cars all had these things growing out of their ears. Everybody in a car had his windows rolled up even though it was summer. I guess now air conditioning was standard in all cars. What a bunch of wusses! If my Wonderland sounds strange to you, you have no idea of how weird your world looks to me. 

We crossed the street and walked in the side door up to the counter. There were almost no customers inside, and nearly all of the employees were occupied at a window where cars drove up and the occupants picked up their order. The activity along the side wall where the orders were assembled was absolutely frantic. All of the employees looked to be teenagers or in their early twenties. Nobody else could keep up a pace like that for even four hours. Not even me. I motioned for Cheshire to go sit at a table and I would get the order. No need to call attention to a cougar-sized cat in Swilly's. Finally a manager walked up and I gave the order for two "Fish Combos." Swilly's seems to have a language all of their own. I remembered enough of my old life "uptop" to know that I should wait at the counter until the order was ready. It was nearly ten dollars -- a lot more than the last time I remembered being in a Swilly's. It only took a minute or two and I carried the order back to the table with Cheshire. He was sitting up and looked very human-like in such a pose. Rather distinguished, actually. I sat the bag down on the table and we noticed that oil or grease was already soaking through the paper bag. We unwrapped the food and Cheshire and I took a few bites of the sandwiches and "freedom fries." Who came up with the weird idea to call french fries "freedom fries"? I was startled at how oily and greasy everything was and commented to Cheshire "If you ever wanted to fatten me up any, this sure would be the place to bring me." 

Cheshire informed me that he had been trying to figure out how to put some weight on my scrawny frame for twenty years and had run out of ideas. Nothing worked. Well, in Wonderland there's not much to eat except vegetarian fare, so naturally we're all skinny down there. I asked him with a sneer, "Did you ever think of chocolate? I'd be fat if there were chocolate bars in Wonderland.” It never occurred to me that I might later regret telling him that.

The oily sandwich and french fries started to turn my stomach and I pulled my Bowie knife out to look at my reflection in the blade. Big mistake. While I was turning green, I heard a crash back in the kitchen and saw an employee frantically dialing on one of those Star Trek Communicators. Since everybody used those things, I didn't think anything of it. I took a few more bites and decided that finishing the meal would not be a good idea. I walked over to the receptacle that housed a trash can and yanked it out. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatt! Oh, yeah...I was just a fantastic advertisement for Swilly's food. Puking it up right there in their dining room. An employee walked by and I said "Excuse me. Could you hand me a napkin? Thank you." Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatt!

Cheshire saw them first. At both doors groups of Queen George's card guards...excuse me, "Homeland Security"...burst in. Ever the quick-thinking cat, Cheshire tossed the greasy food onto the floor in as wide a dispersion as possible. The card guards...excuse me, "Homeland Security"...went flying in all directions like a bunch of Keystone Cops and all landed on their keisters. First rule of combat in Wonderland: if you need an exit and there isn't one, make one! Out came the knife. "Crash!" Right through a window. Cheshire and I leaped through the window and the knife did what it always does in Wonderland: it came right back to me. I tossed the spinning top into the hole and off we ran as a mini-tornado started up right where I had broken the glass. Have fun card guards! Excuse me, "Homeland Security."

There was a helicopter overhead, and we decided that I was going to have to do something I had never done before: ride Cheshire. He had been riding me for twenty years, so it was about time I got my turn! He could run even faster than me, and it would take everything to get back to the hole before the card guards, excuse me..."Homeland Security"...in the helicopter got us. By this time the spinning top had also done its returning act, and I pulled out the looking glass. Poof! Alice and Cheshire gone! For twenty seconds, anyway. At the hole, there was no time to wait for the usual way to get down --we were now visible again -- which was to let the customs official move the extended ladder to the hole. We did it combat style: I grabbed Cheshire and jumped. My dress did its usual magic and we landed with a bit of a thump. I noticed that a lot of the gnomes were out and about, and nearly all of the women looked very pissed off. Cheshire whispered in my ear: "Alice, you're in your forties. Don't you think it's about time you started wearing panties?" Oops.

 

A couple of weeks after our trip "uptop" I saw a red ribbon tied to an unused closet in my bedroom. Cheshire must have climbed in through the window again. I opened the closet and was startled to see stacked up high on the formerly empty shelves 50 boxes of 3.5-ounce bars of Valrhona milk chocolate. There were 20 bars in each box. Did Cheshire know how much I loved milk chocolate? Did he know I hadn't had any since I had escaped from the insane asylum? He had dumped Pandora's box into my closet. I had never heard of Valrhona chocolate and opened one bar. The first taste was ecstasy. I had never tasted anything like this in my life. Almost all other chocolate was garbage compared to this. Did that cat realize what he had just done? I suspected that all he wanted was a girlfriend who was more-or-less “normal”-looking. I was the most amazing hayburner in Wonderland, but I was worried. I was convinced that I was sure to get fat on this stuff. Of course I genuinely wanted some additional weight because I hated looking like an eleven-year-old boy, but I did not want to end up a size 20. Size 8 was fine, even size 14 was tolerable, but not a size 20. Damn you, Cat! I finished the bar. Ooooooohhhhhhhhhh...Valrhona...thy name is temptation. Throwing away the chocolate was absolutely out of the question. “Be careful what you wish for Cat, you may get it,” I thought. 

Unfortunately for Cheshire, the chocolate had an unexpected side effect on me. Maybe it was the caffeine. Who knows? It dramatically increased my appetite for a certain other "something." Our once-a-day “wrestling matches” in the mushroom patch were no longer enough for me. I starting dragging Cheshire out there three or four times a day. One day about ten weeks after our trip “uptop” I showed up at Cheshire's cabin and he blurted out, “Augh! I just can't take it any more! You're killin' me! I'm a cat! Not a sex machine you can just flip a switch on!” He dropped on his bed and started to snore. I had never in my life heard Cheshire snore before. I didn't have a scales in my house and pulled down a scales that I knew Cheshire kept in a closet. My size-2 dresses had started getting snug and I was curious. One hundred and eight. Most women would panic at gaining eight pounds, but I was happy. I needed to go to my gnome tailor and have some of my dresses let out. They were all size-2 and I figured it wouldn't be long before I had nothing that would fit. I asked her for a size six and a size eight. She asked me if I was pregnant. I just smiled and didn't respond. “Keep smiling, girl,” I thought.

A week later I found another box in the closet with all the chocolate. I opened it and found a plastic device that looked like a long, thick carrot. I looked on the side and there was Hatter's traditional hand-engraved emblem, "Hatter's Clockworks." I looked at it and thought "No! It couldn't be! He doesn't even know such things exist!" I flicked the switch. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........! It was. It was a vibrator.

I took the device to Hatter and asked him where he had gotten the idea. He said it was Cheshire's own invention. "A brand-new invention! Who besides Cheshire would ever be crazy enough to think of this! We're going to take these things uptop and sell a million of them!" I didn't have the heart to tell him.

A year has gone by since Cheshire dumped Pandora's Box into my closet. He pretty much got his wish, but so did I. I didn't get fat on the chocolate, but I did get a bit chubby. Since the extra weight gave me a feminine figure that I've never had before, I have no desire to lose the padding. For the first time since childhood, I like what I see in the mirror. I'm so vain! I'm still a hayburner, and it's a struggle to keep the weight. Cheshire can't keep his eyes off me and has been exercising in an attempt to get in good enough shape for at least two “wrestling matches” a day with me. He is more attentive than he has ever been and sometimes even acts jealous when the Mad Hatter is around. He needn't worry. Cheshire has me all to himself. I even had one of my dresses embroidered at the bottom: “Only for Cheshire”. You can imagine how he struts around Wonderland on days when I'm wearing that dress. We are all but married. Hatter isn't so sweet to me anymore and often makes insulting remarks about my weight. I just smile at him. I'm kind of glad that he's no longer pining away for me. I used to feel so guilty, but his superficiality has stripped away any guilt I ever felt. Unexpected is that the gnome men are always staring at me nowadays. I've heard there's actually a tame sort of pin-up photo of me floating around the gnome village. Seems somebody got hold of a cell phone with a camera and figured out how to hook it up to his junk computer. A photo of me leaning up against a wall tossing my Bowie knife up in the air. I've never seen it. The gnome men seem to think I'm Judy Garland – Judy Garland with red hair and freckles. I'm actually quite flattered. Maybe the next time I see a cell phone in the gnome village, I'll strike a pose for the holder. Thank you for the chocolate, Cheshire. Most women would want to kill you, but I'm happy you gave it to me. 

The End

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About the Author:

Miss Alice lives in Wonderland with the White Rabbit and a little green lizard named Bill whom she once booted up a chimney. It's a shared housing arrangement, and all three earn their keep by brewing up all of Wonderland's hooch. Miss Alice is officially single, but sneaks off to the mushroom patch daily for a "wrestling match" with the Cheshire Cat. Every Saturday night in Wonderland involves the ritual showing of the Matrix trilogy and everyone agrees that Keanu Reeves would have looked silly in a blue dress and white apron.

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This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights. The idea of the spinning top as a weapon is my own invention. Pity it doesn't exist in the game. Also a nod to the movie “Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.”

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Version 2


	4. The City Behind the Asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mad Hatter and Alice infiltrate a homeless encampment located out of sight behind the asylum behind a wall of trees.

The City Behind the Asylum

by Nikki Little

Chapter One: Hatter's Discovery

While my lessons in blowing smoke portals continued, Caterpillar continued to make new discoveries extending his own abilities. His most important discovery was how to keep a portal open continuously for a round trip. Previously, the longest a smoke portal could remain open was perhaps 15 seconds. These "continuous smoke portals" were especially useful if the person – or creature – making the trip was unable to blow a smoke portal for the return trip. At the time, only Caterpillar, myself, and Hatter knew how to blow smoke portals. Caterpillar had started teaching Hatter how to blow smoke portals as well, and Hatter, unlike me, was a brilliant student who learned in two weeks what had taken me months to learn. Hatter and I both then learned together how to blow Caterpillar's newly discovered "continuous smoke portals". He learned the new technique in two hours. It took me two weeks. I feel like such a dunce around Hatter.

Hatter took his first trip "uptop" as a personal favor to me. Now everyone knows that about once a month a woman has a few days when she is, shall we say, not at her best. I didn't have a problem with this before when I was so waifish, but now I get those damn things once a month like clockwork. Sometimes it hurts so bad that I actually wish I was a size 2 again. Then I remember how much I hated looking like a boy. While I was sweating one out, Hatter decided to make a trip "uptop" to a grocery story pharmacy to get some Midol for me. There was still some money left over from the windfall that had popped out the back of a desktop computer that had broken open when tossed down the Rabbit Hole, so paying for it would not be a problem. Hatter blew a smoke portal that opened just outside the Rabbit Hole "uptop" and began hiking along the wooded border of the stream in the direction away from the street in front of the asylum. There was supposed to be a large grocery story located about a mile or so behind the asylum. Hatter continued walking until he came to a long barrier row of trees. He looked around for an opening and didn't see anything obvious. He pushed his way through the branches, and that's when he saw it: there was a huge tent city located behind a shopping center ahead. Ragged, dirty homeless people were everywhere. Now Hatter had never before witnessed such misery in the uptop world, and for all his outer gruffness, he was really a sensitive soul. Hatter walked along the edge of the homeless encampment and went into the grocery store to make his purchase. He didn't talk to any of the homeless people on the way back, and none of them approached him. Hatter told me his story when he handed me the bottle of pills.

Now up until then, I had had nothing to help dull the pain of periods except the double-strength cherry brandy which Bill, Mr. White, and I made occasionally purely for my personal use. It was 140 proof and was kept in my weapons locker. Needless to say, when Hatter handed me the bottle of pills, I was drunk out of my skull. I was not only not feeling my cramps, I wasn't feeling anything at all – not even my toes. Out of pity, I suppose, Hatter sat down with me and had a few glasses of my "period brandy". It wasn't long before Hatter was as drunk as I was. He didn't realize that the brandy was double-strength. Hatter had hurt my feelings six or seven weeks ago on a wild Wonderland Saturday night, and I figured now was a very good time to ask about the snub. I mentioned that Hatter hadn't gotten up on a chair and declared his eternal love for me like he had always done before on our once-every-two-months ritual showings of the Matrix Trilogy on Saturday nights. Hatter always got plastered on Matrix night, and it was then and only then that his feelings for me came pouring out. Then he always got really embarrassed after he sobered up, and he would hide from me for a couple of days. I admitted that I felt just a wee bit hurt and rejected because of this, and wanted to know that actual reason. Hatter looked very embarrassed, but, because he was drunk, he was willing to talk. He was also very blunt: "I like my women thin." Ouch. Since I was drunk, I was feeling no inhibitions at all: "Are you telling me that you don't like me anymore, or are you just telling me you find me less physically attractive?" Hatter looked a bit disturbed. Maybe he realized he was being a jerk. "I've always adored you. You know that. I just don't find you physically attractive at all anymore." I asked Hatter to sit down next to me and pulled his head over on my chest. It was kind of a dirty trick. You might say that I introduced Hatter to the "twins" which I didn't have when I was thin. It didn't work, however. Hatter fell asleep. I guess a pair of Bs weren't worth staying awake for. The next thing I knew, Cheshire had come in, spotted Hatter and me on the sofa, and got a little angry. Cheshire hissed Hatter out the door and confronted me. Yes, I was still drunk. I told him not to worry: "Hatter has no interest in me now. He thinks I'm ugly. Good riddance, Hatter. Does Hatter have any idea just how ugly he is? His face is the thirteenth weapon of Wonderland!" Dumb, Alice. Dumb, dumb, dumb! You stupid drunken slut! You should have just let ol' Furball get jealous. Nothing like jealousy to trick a man...er, cat...into proposing. Cheshire looked amused and was no longer angry: "Hatter doesn't know a beautiful woman when he sees one." Cheshire gave me the long, slow look up and down, and said, "You are stunning - you take my breath away." Cheshire always seemed to know the right thing to say, but I didn't know if he was sincere or not. Since I was drunk, I brought up the marriage thing again: "When are you going to get me that ring, you furry little coward? Or will I have to get you drunk and trick you into marrying me? You know I can be very devious." Cheshire suddenly remembered he was hungry and scampered off to the Vale to hunt snarks. He always gets hungry when I mention the word "marriage". Men! Er... Cats! Bloody coward! Hic!

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The idea for chapter one came from LiannaInHell's "If Alice Were On Her Period" - a short, inspired piece of lunacy!

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Chapter Two: A Mischievous Idea

I repeated Hatter's story about the tent city behind the shopping center to Caterpillar and asked him if there was anything devious I could do to make the self-absorbed uptop world more aware of the increasing exclusion of their citizens from the so-called "prosperity" that the uptop newspapers never tired of trumpeting. I personally felt that the uptop newspapers were so full of lies that they weren't fit for use as anything but toilet paper. (Old newspapers were the toilet paper of Wonderland. I was partial to old copies of the New York Times, myself.) Caterpillar suggested that infiltration was one possible strategy, but I would need to have a plan of what I hoped to accomplish before I attempted such a thing. He didn't think going uptop to live among the homeless was an ethical idea if done only for information gathering. I had to have some goals. I went home to think about what I might hope to accomplish.

It took me awhile, but I eventually came up with one worthwhile goal: I wanted to convince homeless people that their lives were just as valuable as the lives of the rich. I didn't buy the idea that material wealth made the lives of some people more valuable than the lives of other people. Every person, I felt, had the right to the basic necessities and also some minimum level of human dignity. The problem was how to explain such ideas to people who seemed ashamed even to be alive. I visited Caterpillar in his Oracle Cave and laid out my ideas to him. Caterpillar rubbed his chin – or what passes for a chin on a caterpillar – and seemed lost in thought. "Alice, I do believe I'm starting to rub off on you. You're starting to sound like a philosopher. I'm most impressed. If you seek my blessing for such a venture, you have it. Of course, you don't need my permission or anyone else's to do as you please."

I went to Hatter and explained my ideas to him as well and asked if he would care to take part. I didn't want to try living in a homeless encampment alone. To put it bluntly, I was chicken to try it alone. I needed Hatter. Hatter was apparently feeling so guilty over a certain unkind remark he had made to me that he agreed immediately.

As I've mentioned before, Hatter is the indispensable man of Wonderland. Just about everything technical in Wonderland is run by him. Hatter had to train replacements to run the electric plant, water plant, sewage plant, and other technical things in Wonderland. It took him two months to train his most knowledgeable gnomes – one of whom snitched to me that Hatter had that same pin-up picture of me that was floating around the gnome village in a frame on top of his writing desk. I personally thought it was a very good idea to have people besides Hatter who knew how to run and repair Wonderland's admittedly primitive utilities. After two months, Hatter was ready to join me in my intended adventure in the homeless encampment. I didn't mention the picture on top of his writing desk.

Hatter and I both went uptop on a shopping trip to buy some basics such as backpacks and camp-style cookware. About one-third of the original $2000 windfall was still left after we made our purchases. We both filled our backpacks with some basic necessities and met at Caterpillar's Oracle Cave for our departure. Of course I had my usual assortment of weapons from my weapons locker – Bowie knife, spinning top, looking glass, and this time also the ice wand and the jackbomb – and also the three "bongs" with Caterpillar's smoke portal powder. I also had one weapon that I had never used before: the shrunken head that Caterpillar had recently handed to me without a word. I actually had to use the disgusting thing to find out what it did. I threw it and saw that it created an enormous, foul-smelling, black smokescreen. Inside the smokescreen I could faintly see all sorts of horrifying illusions. I had no doubt that any people caught inside the smoke screen would be frightened out of their wits. It occurred to me that this might be the perfect weapon for trips "uptop" as it appeared to be nonlethal, although I did suspect that it would cause an occasional person to have a heart attack from fright. That was, no doubt, the reason why caterpillar gave it to me. He was well aware of my reluctance to risk killing someone "uptop" even in self-defense. The rumor around Wonderland was that the shrunken head was actually the head of the Duchess. I was the one who had killed her. By just looking at it, I couldn't tell, but the possibility that it was her head sure creeped me out. I also had a dozen ski masks and a box of 200 disposable rubber gloves. I was already planning night-time grocery store raids. The ski masks were to hide faces from security cameras and the rubber gloves were to prevent fingerprints from being left behind. Caterpillar blew a smoke portal and Hatter and I both stepped through. In a moment, we were both "uptop" and just outside the Rabbit Hole. We hiked the rest of the way toward the homeless encampment. We didn't talk.

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The idea of the shrunken head of the Duchess as a weapon is entirely my own.

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Chapter 3: The City Behind the Asylum

As we entered the homeless encampment, a group of three men and a woman walked up to us. "Are you planning on staying here?" asked the woman. It quickly became apparent that the woman was the unofficial head of the encampment. Everyone seemed to defer to her. This was a surprise and, no doubt, a bit uncomfortable to Hatter who was accustomed to men being in charge of everything. I said that we were looking for a place to stay and would appreciate being allowed to stay in the vicinity. We didn't have tents. It was then that I noticed that each of the three men had a gun. The woman introduced herself as Arianne and noted that the three men were the "enforcers" in the homeless camp. She looked at me and said, "We haven't had a rape for six months, which is very, very good for homeless encampments." Nobody had yet noticed the knife I had strapped to my hip. I slowly pulled it out and said, "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself." A rabbit was hopping around about fifty feet away and I aimed my knife and let fly. The rabbit squealed and dropped over dead on the spot. I didn't raise my hand for the automatic return and instead walked over to pick up the knife and the rabbit. "Anyone want rabbit for dinner? I don't eat meat." I handed the rabbit to Arianne whose eyes were bugging out. The three men were also looking at me quite intently. I thought it best to keep the special properties of my knife secret for the moment. I looked at Hatter and whispered, "Don't tell Mr. White." I shoved the knife back into my my hip sheath with a pirate-like flourish.

Arianne led Hatter and me to an old man who had the look of an elder statesman. "We just call him 'Q'. No matter what you need, he always seems to know of a charity or a free store where you can find it. He'll take you to a free store to get a tent. You can leave your belongings in my tent in the meantime. No one ever enters my tent without asking first. Everyone's afraid to. Your belongings will be safe." Hatter and I did as she suggested and departed with "Q". "Q" knew of a church charity that distributed old, used boy scout tents to homeless people. The tents weren't much and often leaked in the rain, but they were better than nothing. I saw an old, rusty ax lying in a corner and asked for that. Maybe we would be able to find some heavy nails later. I had an idea. Hatter smiled as he knew exactly what I was thinking: a log cabin. I carried the two tents and "Q" carried the ax back to encampment. I didn't ask Hatter to carry one of the tents because I knew that he wouldn't be able to carry it for long. As strange as it sounds, I was the one with the brawn and he was the one with the brains. I remember "Q" staring at me in astonishment as I carried the two tents without any apparent exertion.

After we got back to the encampment, Arianne explained the basics of life in the camp. "We don't really have a reliable source of water. Most people are filling up water bottles at a car wash located over in the shopping center. The manager looks the other way most of the time, but when he expects a visit from his area supervisor he puts locks on the outdoor water faucets because he's afraid of losing his job. Supplying an entire homeless encampment with drinking water is not in his job description. Another source is the creek. Some people here have been dipping water out of the creek and then adding chlorine bleach. This is not really sufficient water treatment and these people get diarrhea a lot and sometimes even parasites. There are no public water taps available. You'd think that in a civilized country, everyone, even homeless people, would have access to safe drinking water. This is not a civilized country. A few of us have taken to stealing water from residential homes' outside water taps in the middle of the night. This is what most of do on days when the car wash has locks on its outdoor water faucets. None of us feels guilty. The people who drink water from the creek tend to die after a few years. They just keep getting skinnier and nastier-looking. Don't drink water from the creek if you can help it. That should be a last resort." Hatter had a look of utter horror on his face. I wonder what look I had on my face. Arianne went into her tent and handed Hatter and me each two plastic water bottles that were full. "This water came from the car wash and is drinkable. You are now on your own regarding water. Food, however, is shared. There are a few people who cook rice and beans daily for the entire camp. You can walk over there and get some now, if you wish. The primary rule in this camp is share your food. Most of every day is spent getting water and searching for food. Some of the food in this camp comes from dumpsters. I hope you're not too picky." Hatter looked like he was about to faint. I walked over and got some rice and beans in a paper bowl. I washed my hands in the creek and then ate with my hands like some Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa. Hatter just stood there and turned...um...even greener than he usually is. I later gave him one of the chocolate bars from the box that I had brought with me. Hatter meekly thanked me and took the bar. Nothing more was said.

The next morning started out in a similar manner. I took a metal bowl from my camp kit and got in line with the rest of the encampment members. It was impossible not to notice how thin and haggard everybody else looked. Quite a few of the encampment members were staring at me that morning. I couldn't help wondering why. Was it the Bowie knife on my hip? Maybe it was the apron I always wore. Hatter kept out of sight and I started to worry that he might refuse to eat. The rest of that first day was a lesson for me in food gathering. The nastiest-looking people (the most pitiful-looking people) stood in line at food banks all day hoping for a handout. With all the government cutbacks in funding for anti-poverty programs, getting a free grocery bag of food was getting more and more difficult. The rest of us who were still capable of physical activity engaged in the time-honored homeless activity of "dumpster diving."

The rules for dumpster diving:

Always dive in the daytime so you can see the ants. Never dive into a dumpster full of ants.

Beware of alley cats inside the dumpsters. It is not good to get a face full of angry feline claws.

Keep your distance from raccoons. Raccoons are sometimes seen in the early morning.

Beware of the possibility of rat poison sprinkled inside a dumpster.

Dumpster diving by beginners is best done with a long stick that has a hook of some type at one end.

The best trash is usually at the bottom of the dumpster.

Canned goods are usually safe, but inspect them carefully for pinpricks because of the risk of botulism.

Never eat from a can that is rusty, bulging, or dented.

If the food from a can spews when opened, don't eat it. Botulism.

Never eat anything that is home-canned.

Dry foods still in the original packages are probably safe.

Always grab intact packages of rice, beans, or dry pasta.

A half-empty jar of peanut butter is probably safe. Peanut butter does not require refrigeration.

Do not eat wrapped up home leftovers.

Take only what is immediately useful. Leave everything else.

Dumpsters at construction sites might contain a few useful non-food items.

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Much of the information in the list of rules for dumpster diving comes from Chapter 7 "On Dumpster Diving" from the book "Travels With Lizbeth" by Lars Eighner.

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Chapter Four: Patterns of Life

Life at the homeless encampment became a pattern of refilling water bottles, eating, standing in line at food banks and charities, and dumpster diving. Most people had long since given up on job hunting. The only way for any of us to bathe was to wash in the creek – preferably below the point where some people were dipping water out to treat with chlorine bleach for drinking purposes. There was very little privacy. I didn't really fancy exposing my body, but if I didn't want to smell like a skunk, there was little choice. I already smelled worse than Hatter, and that was something that had never happened before. Women tended to bathe as a group with Arianne because everybody felt safer with her around. I joined the group at the creek after a few days in the encampment and was treated to some subtle stares. The other women tried to be polite, but they were all gaunt and sickly-looking and I...well...wasn't. It didn't take long for the harsh living conditions in the encampment to take its toll on me as well. Two weeks later Arianne noted that I appeared to have dropped five pounds: "You're starting to wither just like the rest of us did."

Meanwhile, Hatter had found a way to make himself useful. He had drawn up a blue print for a primitive slow sand filter to use for purifying the creek water and making it relatively safe to drink. He showed his blue print and list of items needed to Arianne, and she paired a burly-looking fellow with Hatter to assist him in finding the necessary materials. Together they went scrounging through dumpsters at construction sites and going to charities in hopes of obtaining construction materials. Hatter let the other guy fill out the forms as he knew no one would believe him if he filled out the forms. It took about three weeks of extensive searching to obtain all of the necessary materials. It took Hatter only a few hours to assemble the materials and set up an intake pipe upstream at a higher elevation to drain into the new filter. Arianne took one look at the final result and declared Hatter a genius. She was so overcome with gratitude that she bawled like a baby. No one in the camp could recall having seen the hardened Arianne cry before. The absolute worst problem in the camp was now solved. The slow sand filter produced just enough water for drinking purposes for the entire camp. Washing dishes and bathing still had to be done in untreated creek water. Now if only we could solve the bathroom problem! I had started running around bare-assed again to make taking a leak easier.

Unknown to me at the time, Hatter had found a way to eat very well while living in the homeless encampment. He had set up rabbit snares all over the place and was catching one or two rabbits almost every night. In the middle of the night, Hatter was blowing smoke portals back to Wonderland to his own home so that he could roast his rabbits in his oven and shower in his own bathroom. In other words, Hatter was cheating. There would, however, be a price to pay for this cheating later. That was when I discovered what Hatter was doing.

After about two weeks, Hatter and I gave up on the idea of building a log cabin. We agreed the idea was too ambitious. I finally brought up the pin-up photo of me that Hatter kept on his writing desk. Hatter did not seem embarrassed at all and said simply, "It's the only portrait I have of you. I really wanted a portrait of you for my study." After about a month, I decided that the time had come to reveal to Arianne my real purpose in the encampment. I had gotten to know her and the other camp residents well enough to have earned a bit of trust. My knack for nailing rabbits at long distances on the spur of the moment with my Bowie knife, often right in front of other homeless residents, had garnered me a bit of popularity in the camp. Everyone knew that I didn't eat meat and always gave away the freshly-killed rabbits. I walked up to Arianne's tent and asked to enter. She assented and I went in. She was alone and sitting on top of a rather dirty sleeping bag that had a sheet of plywood under it that was sitting on top of flat rocks. "To keep the sleeping bag dry when it rains," she explained. I asked her if she had ever been suspicious about who I might be. "Well, of course," she said. "We've never had anybody as unusual as you in the camp before. Having a Bowie knife always strapped to your hip is alone reason enough to make the rest of us wonder. You come across as a female Daniel Boone, or maybe a pirate. You seem to have an almost pirate-like swagger. If you've come to tell me who you really are, I'm all ears. My bet is on an escaped circus performer. You do wonders with that knife." It was news to me that I had a "pirate-like swagger". Did I come across as arrogant?

"Do you remember that weird story you heard about President George Bush being taken on an unusual time travel trip by a girl he described as some sort of psycho version of the Wonderland Alice?"

"Yes, I remember," said Arianne. "Everyone thought Bush has lost his few remaining marbles. It's a wonder he didn't end up in a nuthouse." Arianne looked me over. I knew what she was eyeballing: blue dress, white apron, etc...

"Come take a trip with me. We need to go into the woods by the creek. Just a little privacy."

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Chapter 5: The Grocery Store Raids

Arianne was really starting to get suspicious now and even seemed a bit afraid. I unzipped the velcro across my apron pocket and took out Caterpillar's bong. I lit it with one of Hatter's cigarette lighters and blew a time travel smoke portal. The oranges and yellows of the portal rotated slowly in front of us. "Come take a visit to the White House with me," I said. I took Arianne's hand and we stepped through. After shooting through the swirling, purple, funhouse tunnel of time travel, Arianne and I floated just above the floor inside the White House completely unseen by everyone around us. The usual massive headache occurred to me as my mind caught up with the differences that had occurred since the time we had left. The look on my face must have told Arianne all she needed to know: the wars in the Middle East had gotten worse and everything was falling apart, including the U.S. economy that was collapsing under the strain of ever-increasing war spending and ever-falling tax revenues from further rounds of tax cuts aimed at the very rich. I wanted to leave immediately and said so to Arianne. She shook her head up and down to indicate yes, and I blew another smoke portal. I couldn't wait to leave. We stepped through and thumped down in the woods outside the homeless encampment. Arianne did not ask me about what I had learned in the time travel jump. Somehow she knew without asking. She did not seem disturbed at what she had just experienced. I told Arianne that I would meet her at her tent at 3:00 AM and we would go "shopping" for food. I think she understood that I was planning to steal it.

Arianne was waiting for me at 3:00 AM and we went into the woods. The moonlight was just bright enough for us to see our way. I explained to Arianne that this time I was going to open a portal that opened inside a grocery store. I would make the first trip alone and throw a "smoke bomb" that cleared all the night employees out of the store. I would return and then Arianne and I both would transport through another portal straight to the bulk section. I would grab 50-pound bags of rice and she would grab all the bulk bags of beans she could carry. I handed Arianne a ski mask to hide her face from security cameras and disposable gloves to mask her fingerprints. I also put on the ski mask and rubber gloves and made my first trip. I blew a "continuous-type" smoke portal and immediately threw the shrunken head. I stepped back through and thumped down near the waiting Arianne. I told Arianne that we had about two minutes after arrival to get what we needed and then we would meet at precisely the spot where we arrived. At the last moment, I decided to blow a continuous portal so that the meeting spot would be continuously visible. I did not want Arianne getting lost in the store. I blew the portal and we stepped through. I ran straight to the bulk aisle and grabbed three 50-pound bags of rice and Arianne grabbed two 20-pound bags of beans. The shrunken head returned to my hand and I immediately stuffed it in my apron to prevent Arianne from seeing it. We headed straight back to the portal when I got distracted by the candy display. Endless bars of Ghiradelli milk chocolate. I took fifteen seconds to stuff my apron pockets completely full and then headed to the portal. Arianne was waiting and we both stepped through.

Back in the woods, Arianne immediately broke out into hysterical laughter. She tore the velcro strap off my apron pocket and ran her fingers through what must have 40 bars of chocolate. "You're addicted to chocolate! That explains a lot!" She patted my tail and said "That'll put back at least some of what you've lost!" She knew I wouldn't be offended and started giggling. Obviously she had no guilt feelings about stealing food – at least not from a corporate grocery store. "Would you care to share some of that chocolate?" Arianne asked. I handed her two bars and took two for myself. We proceeded to make pigs of ourselves laughing nonstop. Dragging our stolen booty behind us, we walked back into the encampment with our faces smeared all over with chocolate. For a brief moment, we were eight years old again. And Arianne was my dearest friend.

The next morning we emptied the bags of stolen booty into existing storage bins and burned the bags. Arianne finally asked me the question I'd been waiting to hear: "How on earth did you lift three fifty-pound bags of rice at the same time?" I took her over to an old junked car at the edge of the homeless encampment. With my back to the front fender, I put both hands underneath the fender and proceeded to lift it up about six inches. Of course, it wasn't really me lifting the car – it was the Queen of Hearts – the demon inside me. The Queen of Hearts was one person I hoped that Arianne would never see. "I'm much, much stronger than I look," I told Arianne. "Oh, in case I haven't told you, my name is Alice."

Arianne smiled and replied, "I had already guessed. If you're willing, I'd love to hear some of the stories of your experiences." I spent that day with Arianne planning a larger theft of food at a large corporate grocery store located on the other side of town – one I remembered from childhood. We would take five of the biggest, strongest men and meet in the woods at 3:00 AM when there were likely to be only night stockers inside the grocery store. I would have ski masks and rubber gloves for everyone to hide faces from the cameras and prevent fingerprints from being deposited anywhere. Using shopping carts was absolutely forbidden as I did not want any shopping carts from that grocery store in our encampment. I mentioned that we all needed to remember to bring along a bag to fill with toothbrushes, floss, and toothpaste. Most of the encampment members had nasty-looking teeth. The goal of this expedition was to replenish the encampment's food stocks. I thought that police raids of homeless camps looking for the thieves would be unlikely without any obvious signs of breaking and entering. Political protest of the country's indifference to homeless people would have to wait.

That night Arianne led five men to our meeting place in the woods for the grocery store raid. I first made a speech about how the raid was to be conducted: four minutes only and remember where the portal was! You can imagine the looks on the men's faces when they saw me blow a smoke portal. We did everything the same as before: I handed out ski masks and rubber gloves, and made the first trip to throw the shrunken head to clear the store. When I returned, I blew a continuous-type portal to the grocery store that would stay open until every person who traveled through had also returned. This was how continuous portals worked in general: they did not close until every person who had traveled to the destination point had stepped through to return to the point of origin. Of course I knew how to close a continuous portal early if I wanted to: a jackbomb worked very well. We all stepped through and grabbed for booty – mostly rice, beans, and pasta. Some of us remembered to grab toothbrushes, toothpaste, and floss. I also grabbed vitamin pills and sugarless vitamin C drops. We nearly all showed signs of vitamin A & C deficiency. It occurred to me in the store that we needed to start a garden in the homeless encampment. Unfortunately, the store did not have vegetable seeds. By this time the shrunken head had returned to my hand, and I shoved it into my apron hoping nobody had seen it. I ran around herding everyone back to the portal as I did not want anyone in the store longer than four minutes. Soon enough we were back in the woods, and Arianne ripped open the velcro on my apron pockets to reveal that I had stuffed them full of chocolate bars again. My bag with dental stuff was also filled with chocolate bars. She collapsed onto the ground in laughter. "You and your chocolate addiction! This is hysterical! Can I have some?" I passed out chocolate bars to everyone and we headed back to the encampment dragging our bags of booty behind us. Nobody even blinked at the sight of me dragging three fifty-pound bags of rice behind me. Arianne must have already told them. I did not feel the slightest guilt over stealing food from a corporation. As before, we emptied the rice and beans into storage bins and burned the bags. There would be no more thefts from grocery stores in the near future. Our food problem was solved for at least two months. Now my thinking shifted toward political protest.

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Chapter 6: Arianne

An hour later while everyone else was asleep, Arianne whispered to enter my tent. I let her in thinking that she might be wanting some more chocolate. It wasn't chocolate she was interested in. She started to take off her dress and reached to undress me. I was hypnotized and unable to move. Arianne was moving around me in the same seductive manner that I sometimes used on Cheshire. I couldn't believe that a woman was coming on to me. Now I think I've made it evident that I genuinely liked Arianne, but the idea of sex with a woman was something that had never crossed my mind. Arianne's slow, rhythmic undressing of herself and me caused a wave of intense heat to wash over me. The scream between my legs took my breath away. Not even Cheshire had ever turned me on like this. I didn't have to do a thing. Arianne knew exactly what to do and obviously knew more about turning on a woman than Cheshire. Seconds later she was on top of me, kissing me and fingering my crotch. Her long, red-brown hair draped into my face. Her hands darted everywhere rubbing and caressing in places that Cheshire had never discovered. Now, I'm a straight girl, if a girl who's paired up with a cat can be called a straight girl, but I wanted this. I really wanted this. Just this once... The only way I can describe how it felt is to say that it was like I had twenty vibrators all stuck into me at the same time and switched on. Not even the electric shock treatments I had had in the asylum convulsed me like this. Arianne went into near convulsions at almost precisely the same moment as I did. If we had been inside my sleeping bag instead of on top of it, we surely would have torn it to pieces. It was fortunate for us both that we kept our fingernails well-trimmed or we would have sliced each other into long, narrow ribbons. Arianne had the face of a faded Sophia Loren and a painfully thin figure of the type I used to have. She was almost as short as me. Her breasts were about the same size as mine. It was obvious that, if she weren't so malnourished, she would have the lush curves of a 1940s Hollywood actress. I was almost envious, but lush curves are generally something that tomboys like me don't want. A half hour later my head was asleep on Arianne's chest. Fortunately she woke up and sneeked out before sunrise. I couldn't help wondering how often she had done this sort of thing before.

The next morning I discussed with Arianne my idea on how to organize an impossible-to-ignore political protest against government indifference to the now massive number of homeless people in the U.S. My own feeling was that there were at least four million homeless people in the U.S. - many of them hidden because they moved from one temporary place to another, sleeping on the floors of friends' apartments. My idea was to swiftly move from one homeless encampment to another opening continuous portals directly into the White House lobby and flooding the place with so many homeless people that even the secret service agents would find themselves unable to move about. Of course with that many people and so few bathrooms... Arianne thought that I had lost my mind and started to laugh. Then she took a second look at me and, with combined amusement and a bit of horror, suddenly realized that I was deadly serious. "You're mad!" she said. "I'm Alice," I answered with a cheshire grin. For the protest to have any chance of success, the press would have to be there in force. Arianne agreed to contact the press to inform them of a time for the intended protest. It would still be at least a week. Arianne was the one who had to do the work of contacting all the other homeless encampments in the city. She said there were at least twenty homeless encampments that she knew of. I whispered in her ear that she was welcome to visit me in my tent in the middle of night whenever she cared to. It was an invitation.

For the rest of my time in the homeless camp, Arianne came to visit me nightly and every single love-making session was as spectacular as the first. She taught me all the tricks that she knew and I practiced on her everything that she had used on me. We ended our love-making sessions with chocolate orgies and the giggling of a pair of eight-year-old girls. Unfortunately, my time in the camp was drawing to a close. There remained only the planned political protest as a goal. Then it would be time for me to leave. I had to make a decision. Would I extend an invitation to Arianne to come back to Wonderland with me? It was unsettling to admit it, but I preferred Arianne over Cheshire because she was more affectionate. Much more affectionate.

Just two days before the planned protest in the White House, I noticed that Hatter seemed to be missing. I visited Hatter in his tent and he handed me two pairs of pants that had split down the back. He asked me to take them to my tailor, not his, and have them repaired. I looked at the two pants and then asked, "Just repaired? Or repaired and let out a couple of inches?" I looked Hatter straight in the eye and told him to "spill it." I knew that he had been going back to Wonderland every night because I never saw him eat anything in the homeless encampment. Hatter looked like he wanted to die from embarrassment. He had set up snares for rabbits everywhere and had been blowing smoke portals back to Wonderland to cook his rabbits in his own kitchen and to bathe in his own shower. Hatter had never eaten better in his life. Hatter handed me a bag and stuffed his two pants in it. "Let them both out three inches. Get back as soon as you can. I don't have any pants that will fit." Hatter blew a smoke portal back to the gnome village for me, and I stepped through carrying his bag. My gnome tailor was a bit irritated at having to do a rush job, but I bribed her with some of my "period brandy". Suddenly she was willing to do a rush job. Two hours later I had Hatter's pants let out and repaired and blew a smoke portal back to the woods just outside the homeless encampment. I walked the rest of the way and threw the bag into Hatter's tent without saying a word. I didn't say the obvious insult because it was just too easy – easier than even dipping fish out of a rain barrel. Maybe Hatter would learn a little humility. Hatter started giving away his rabbits to the other homeless encampment members and stood in line for rice and beans like me. Hatter was on a diet. How amusing.

For the last week I had been transporting Arianne to other homeless encampments in the area via smoke portals and letting her do all the arrangements for the planned protest. She was well-known throughout the homeless community and had the credibility to tell the extraordinary tale of a planned protest inside the White House. I was an unknown among the homeless and thought it best to stay in the background. Besides, who would really believe who I was anyway? Besides Arianne, that is. The day we had picked for the protest was a day when there would be visiting foreign dignitaries in the White House. This ensured that there would be newspaper and television journalists all over the place. If there was one thing we needed, it was witnesses. In the meantime, I made a trip back to Wonderland to Caterpillar's Oracle Cave to replenish my supply of "hookah powder" for blowing smoke portals. I explained why I needed the additional powder and Caterpillar agreed that I would need to carry much more than I had left with to carry out my intended purpose. Caterpillar refilled all three of my "bongs" and then gave me three small, nearly indestructable metal containers each containing room for enough powder for six refills. I thanked Caterpillar and then blew a smoke portal back to the homeless encampment.

The next morning as I stood in line for rice and beans, the man behind me whispered "You and Arianne might as well be open about your relationship because everyone in the camp knows." So much for secrecy. I told Arianne and she shrugged her shoulders. "It was bound to get out sooner or later. Care to hold hands in public? Even kiss?" "Only in the homeless camp," I said. "Never outside of this homeless camp." Arianne and I had become a couple. From that moment on we always greeted each other with a kiss on the mouth. It didn't matter who was looking. Soon enough Hatter witnessed one of those kisses and turned sheet pink. The next morning was the scheduled protest. Arianne and I agreed to have our daily tryst in the afternoon instead of in the middle of the night. Neither one of us wanted to be tired out for tomorrow.

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Chapter Seven: Operation Pointless Endeavor

Shortly after lunch I made a trip back to Wonderland for an essential item that I had not carried with me: rage potion. It had been almost thirty years since I had touched the stuff, and I was not particularly eager to use it again, but I felt it would be wise to carry several doses of the vile liquid with me just in case I had an army of secret service agents pull guns on me. I took six vials of rage potion out of my weapons locker and attached two of them together with heavy strapping tape. I had never taken two "hits" of rage potion simultaneously before, but, if I got cornered in the White House, I had made up my mind to chance it. I was absolutely unwilling to risk under any circumstances the possibility of a Wonderland weapon falling into the hands of the U.S. government. I went to my gnome tailor with a bribe of several bottles of my "period brandy" to sew two small pockets just above the breast on my dress for holding vials of rage potion. For a few bottles of my "period brandy", my gnome tailor was positively eager to do rush jobs for me. Damn, she loves that stuff. Who would have ever guessed that a gnome female would have such a taste for alcohol?

After returning to the homeless encampment, I showed the two taped-together vials to Arianne and told her that if she ever saw me suddenly raise the vials to my face just in front of the eyes, it meant that somebody had aimed a gun at me and that I had chosen to fight instead of passively being arrested. "You have to herd everyone back through the portals as fast as possible if you see this. There is no honor in being arrested and herded into a U.S. jail. It is a futile gesture. It would be wise if everyone stayed very close to the portal through which they arrived. In other words, everyone must be constantly on guard to make a hasty exit. Even if the protest lasts only one minute, it will matter if the newspaper and television journalists see it. I hope you don't see me raise these vials to my face because what comes after is truly horrible." I did not explain what the vials were or what they did. With luck, Arianne would not have to find out.

That afternoon Arianne entered my tent for what we both knew might be our last love-making session. This time we made no effort to be quiet or secretive. When we were done, I went to sleep with my head on Arianne's chest, and this time she stayed until I awoke. She stroked my hair with an obvious affection that Cheshire had never shown me in over twenty years. For the first time since I had lived with my family, I felt truly loved. Later that night, when it was time to go to sleep, Arianne came over to my tent and spent the entire night with me. I fell asleep with her arm around me.

The next day after breakfast the time had come. In rapid succession I blew smoke portals to each of the homeless encampments that Arianne had visited and prepared for the protest. In each encampment I blew a continuous portal into the White House lobby and then left for the next encampment. It took about an hour to visit all of the encampments. The last encampment to receive a continuous portal into the White House lobby was my own. The appointed time for the mass departure had arrived, and at each encampment, including my own, we all stepped through the portals into the White House lobby almost simultaneously.

When Arianne and I arrived in the White House lobby, we saw that the room was filled wall-to-wall with people. Some were carrying signs, but many were participating merely by being present. That was certainly all right with me. I wasn't much for carrying signs myself. It was obvious, painfully obvious, that we were all people who had been living long-term in homeless encampments. We were a ragged and pitiful sight. The White House lobby was filled with television cameras and newspaper journalists with cameras. Flash bulbs went off continuously. One journalist jumped in front of me with a camera and clicked away. "Great," I thought. " Just great." I did not want to have my picture on any front pages. Then I realized that I was holding Arianne's hand when the pictures were taken. There were no visiting foreign dignitaries within view and no White House staffers in view either. The television cameras kept rolling and the journalists' cameras continued to flash. George W. Bush had probably been swiftly taken to some underground bunker, I thought. Since the portals had started appearing about an hour ago, they had had plenty of advance warning that something was up. That was when I saw them.

"That's her!" one of the men with guns shouted. "The girl in the blue dress and white apron! She's a terrorist!" Well, shit! I had just arrived and I was already a terrorist? I had tried to save George's soul in a previous encounter with him and this was the thanks I got? I jerked the two taped-together vials of rage potion that I had been carrying in my left hand up in front of my eyes. Out of the corner of one eye I saw that Arianne had already started herding everyone back through the portals. She hadn't waited for my signal and I was most grateful that she hadn't. I pressed both plungers, one full dose in each eye. The last sound I heard was gunfire.

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See my previous short story "Queen George W. Bush Has a Nightmare."

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Chapter 8: An Important Question

I never even saw the flash of blinding white which had been the case in all my previous uses of rage potion which had been a single dose. In what seemed like only a few seconds, the world cleared and I looked around to see that the White House lobby was completely vacant except for one camera woman who was still shooting film. I looked around to see at least a dozen severed hands still clutching guns and with fingers still on the trigger. There were no dead bodies. Thank Heaven! I looked down at my hands and they were still claws. It was very rare for me to regain consciousness while still "converted". My Bowie knife was in its sheath. On the front of my dress I had four cascades of blood from bullet holes. I had been hit four times. Strange how I felt nothing. I felt nothing at all. I looked at the camera woman and asked, "Aren't you afraid of me?" She replied immediately, "You only attacked people who were aiming guns at you. I don't have a gun or any kind of weapon. I'm not afraid of you." The most courageous person in the room was a woman. It figured. "Who are you?" she asked. "I'm someone that George W. Bush knows very well. Ask him." I walked over to the one remaining portal in the room and stepped through. In a moment, I was back in my own homeless encampment. The time that I had spent in the White House lobby was probably about three minutes.

Nearly everyone in the homeless encampment was gathered around the portal waiting for me to return. One glimpse of the "Queen of Hearts" was enough for most people: at least 90 percent of them ran. Arianne spotted me immediately and was aghast at the sight of all the blood. I told her that I was all right, and that bullets only penetrate about an inch into the "Queen of Hearts". It wasn't as bad as it looked. "You'll forgive me if I wait to give you a kiss, I hope," she said. I didn't blame her a bit. I wouldn't want to kiss the "Queen of Hearts" either. "How long will you stay like this?" Arianne asked with a bit of fear in her voice. Was she worried that I would be like this permanently? "I don't know," I said, "but I am certain that it will wear off eventually. Probably in a couple of minutes. I need to go back to Wonderland as soon as possible because I've been labeled a terrorist. You know what that means in George W. Bush's America. I also need to get Hatter to dig the bullets out of me. He's Wonderland's doctor, among other things. Let's go into my tent. I have something important to discuss with you."

Arianne followed me into my tent, and, after sitting down, I started to flicker as if I were becoming visible again after using the looking glass. Arianne asked, "Does this mean it's wearing off?"

A few seconds later I was normal again, so there was no need to reply. Arianne heaved an enormous sigh of relief. I was quite relieved, too, actually. I asked Arianne my important question, "Would you like to come back to Wonderland with me as my lifetime partner? You don't have to answer immediately. I'm willing to wait for an answer." I didn't have to wait for an answer. Arianne was on top of me in a split second kissing me. She had forgotten about the blood. "I take it that's a yes..." It was. Love is truly blind.

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Chapter 9: Three Months Later

Cheshire wasn't happy about getting dumped, especially getting dumped for a female, but, as time passed, he grudgingly learned to accept the situation. Arianne has become quite fond of him, but always treats him as a pet, and nothing more. Arianne gradually regained her health in Wonderland and is now a perfect image of normality. As for me, well, you can imagine what I did after starving my ass off -literally!- in the homeless encampment. After three months the dresses in my closet fit perfectly again. I am fortunate that Arianne is the opposite of Hatter and fancies me being my old size again.

My battle with the Secret Service Agents in the White House lobby ended up on YouTube and sparked a debate within Congress about the legality of labeling someone a "terrorist" and just carting him/her off to Guantanamo without a trial or even specific charge of a crime. Quite a few people argued that my actions had been legitimate self-defense as the video made clear that I had been hit twice by gunfire before I began chopping hands off. I had never seen myself under the influence of rage potion before -not even a glimpse in a mirror- and was utterly repulsed by my own appearance. Under the influence of rage potion, I became HellGirl. Ewwwwwwwwwww!

The demonstration by the inhabitants of all the homeless encampments sparked a brief flurry of debate over the "homeless problem" and many pretty speeches and promises, but absolutely nothing happened. Two weeks later another celebrity shaved her head and the homeless were all forgotten.

After two months, Arianne finally had the nerve to ask me why I didn't just flee through a portal when I saw the armed Secret Service agents. I told her that I had already made the decision to fight if anyone pulled a gun on me. I also did not flee because I was afraid that the Secret Service Agents would start mass-arresting homeless people if I fled. I think I did a pretty good job of keeping them busy.

Arianne and I continue to get along flawlessly without ever fighting. The rest of Wonderland has gotten used to the sight of us together and has nicknamed us "the lovebirds". Arianne became one of Hatter's assistants at the water treatment plant and is happier there than she has ever been in a job in the "uptop" world. She has the room next to mine in the same house with Bill and Mr. White, but she always sleeps in bed with me. One night about three months after my return to Wonderland, it was almost time for bed, and Arianne and I were both in pajamas. Arianne was using my iBook and dial-up connection to peruse the news sites on the internet. "Alice! President Bush was found tied up in bed this morning in a blue dress, white apron, and blond wig. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"

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The End

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This story is based on the characters of the video game American McGee's Alice. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights.


	5. The Second Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you could kidnap the U.S. Senate for a tour of Hell in hopes of scaring them honest, would you do it? And if you did, would it make any difference? Complete except bibliography. Alternate Universe: a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland

Title: The Second Sword  
Category: Games » American McGee's Alice  
Author: nikkilittle  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Horror/Fantasy  
Published: 09-27-07, Updated: 09-29-17  
Chapters: 44, Words: 92,781  
Chapter 1: Chapter 1  
The Second Sword

by Nikki Little

Part One: "The Inferno"

Chapter 01: "The Cascade"

Chapter 02: "The Pool of Fire"

Chapter 03: "Descent"

Chapter 04: "The Vestibule of Hell" (The Opportunists)

Chapter 05: "Minos"

Chapter 06: "Cerberus" (First Circle: The Greedy)

Chapter 07: "Plutus" (Second Circle: The Hoarders and Wasters)

Chapter 08: "The Wrathful" (Third Circle)

Chapter 09: "The City of Dis" (The Opportunists)

Chapter 10: "The Haunted Forest"

Chapter 11: "Lights in Limbo"

Chapter 12: "The Ten Ditches" (Fourth Circle: The Fraudulent)

Chapter 13: "The Manipulators"

Chapter 14: "The Hypocrites"

Chapter 15: "The Grafters"

Chapter 16: "The Robber Barons"

Chapter 17: "The Slave Drivers"

Chapter 18: "The Hatemongers"

Chapter 19: "The Usurers"

Chapter 20: "The Jailers"

Chapter 21: "The Adulterators and Counterfeiters"

Chapter 22: "The False Witnesses"

Chapter 23: "The Cavern of Crystals" (The Torturers)

Chapter 24: "Mirror Image" (The Mirror of Souls)

Chapter 25: "The Cultists" (Fifth Circle: Leaders of Religious Cults)

Chapter 26: "The Plateau of the Unjustly Accused" (Innocent Souls in Hell)

Chapter 27: "Here Be Dragons"

Chapter 28: "Medusa" (Sixth Circle: The Violent)

Chapter 29: "The Empire Builders"

Chapter 30: "The Revelation of Rhadamanthus" (Seventh Circle: The Soulless)

Chapter 31: "The Pit" (The Late Repenters)

Chapter 32: "The Refuge" (The Wood of Suicides)

Part Two: "Limbo"

Chapter 33: "The Philosopher Kings"

Chapter 34: "An Evening with Mark Twain"

Part Three: "The Princess of Thieves"

Chapter 35: "Lost Horizon"

Chapter 36: "The Princess of Thieves"

Chapter 37: "Tea and Tears"

Chapter 38: "The Second Sword"

Part Four: "Appendix"

Chapter 39: Bibliography

Chapter 40: Dedication

Chapter 1: "The Cascade"

There's a theory - more a cliché, now - claiming that an event as insignificant as the flapping of a butterfly's wings on one continent could have catastrophic effects on another continent. Now I happen to think that this theory is overblown, but I had no chance of knowing that an event as minor as the collapse of a shelf could create a situation that almost changed history. Almost. It breaks my heart to think that all that has happened has accomplished so little. The event to which I am referring is the day - has it been two years? - when a shelf collapsed in Alice's weapons locker. Now normally this would not have been such a big deal, but Alice was in the weapons locker room when the collapse occurred, and the items on the shelf that collapsed were no less than at least a hundred vials of rage potion. Alice keeps bottles of her "period brandy" on the second shelf of her weapons locker, and one day in the summer of 2007 - was it July? - she went in to her weapons locker to get a bottle of that magical pain-killing elixir. She pulled the bottle off the second shelf, and my guess is that the top shelf with all the vials of rage potion was ready to collapse and was being held up by the top of the bottle of period brandy on the shelf below. When Alice pulled the bottle of period brandy out, the entire top shelf tilted and all those vials of rage potion came cascading down one right after the other. I didn't actually see the event happen. I was in a hallway nearby when I heard the vials come smashing down one-by-one. It sounded like the popping open of champagne bottles. I heard Alice scream, and then I saw the cloud of pinkish-red rage potion vapor and smelled the stench of fresh blood. I rushed into the room holding my breath and feeling for Alice, but the harm was already done. Alice, still marginally sensible, pushed me back out the door and around the corner. On the floor, I began to feel woozy. The world disappeared in a blaze of blinding white as I looked down at my hands and saw them turn into claws.

I awoke in Caterpillar's Oracle Cave. I looked down at my hands just in time to see my hands and nails return to normal. That stench of fresh blood that I mentioned earlier had followed me to the Oracle Cave, and I was mystified for a moment as to its source. The mystery was solved a moment later when Alice stepped into view. She was the source of the odor, and her appearance was just as horrific. Alice's skin had turned coal black and was flaking like the ash off a burning log. Her eyes burned like fireplace embers in a dark room. Her hair had turned into tens of thousands of threadlike snakes, each with a mind of its own. Her hands were claw-like, and razor-sharp. She reminded me of the mythological Medusa.

Caterpillar, who never seemed to leave his cave, was known for his fearlessness, but this time his courage failed him. Gazing upon Alice with an empty, blank expression, he said nothing. If I had had any common sense at the time, I would have wheeled around and run straight out the door of the cave. However, Alice has been my partner since I arrived in Wonderland, and running simply did not occur to me. I simply did not believe that she would ever hurt me even in the worst of circumstances. I turned out to be only partly right.

Alice walked to the back of the cave and filled all three of her "bongs" and about a dozen small metal boxes with Caterpillar's smoke portal powder. She put them into her velcro-flapped dress pockets and velcro-flapped apron pockets where she already had her cards weapon, the ice wand, and the jacks. Strapped to her hip, as always, was the Bowie knife. In one corner in a rack was a weapon that was never supposed to leave Wonderland: the Jabberwock Eyestaff. This weapon was nearly indestructible, but, if it were lost, there would be no replacing it. Alice took the Eyestaff - it was remarkably small - and put it into her right apron pocket. She took out her ice wand and blew a smoke portal. Without saying a word, Alice picked me up in her left arm like a sack of potatoes and carried me through.

End of Chapter 1

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 4 of Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Chapter 2  
Chapter 2: "The Pool of Fire"

After her adventure in the White House lobby, Alice had often spoken of President George W. Bush as a lost cause. She believed that he was impervious to other people's opinions and that it would be a waste of time to make any more attempts to prick his conscience. "Arianne," said Alice one time, "the man hasn't got a conscience and I don't think he even has a soul anymore." Normally I wouldn't remember a remark like that, but Alice's casual comment turned out to be prophetic. "The only hope of influencing that so-called government of the people up there," continued Alice, "is to concentrate on Congress." Of course, Alice believed most of Congress to be worthless as well, but she did believe that there might be a few of them who still had a conscience and a soul. She even expressed a certain degree of fondness for Senator Bernie Sanders whom she said reminded her of Mr. White in both attitudes and appearance. I suspected that someday Alice might attempt with a group of federal legislators what she had once attempted with George W. Bush. That day, completely by accident, had arrived.

When Alice and I stepped out of the portal, which closed behind us a few seconds later, I immediately recognized where we had arrived. The curved rows of seats on the lower floor, the big desk at the center in front, the U.S. flag at the side of the big desk, and an upper floor lined with seats for observers told me that we had arrived in the U.S. Senate. There were microphones everywhere and several reporters with television cameras, including a C-SPAN camera. The portal and, of course, Alice's horrifying appearance resulted in all cameras immediately turning on us. We had arrived in the lower section reserved for legislators and were, no doubt, immediately perceived as likely terrorists. Alice immediately raced around the sides of the room spraying all the walls and doors with the ice wand thus, temporarily, sealing everyone inside. Capitol police both on the floor and in the upper balcony area pulled guns which had me diving for the floor. Alice, in a voice of burned charcoal and whiskey, rasped in a lion's roar, "Lose your guns or lose your hands!" I saw one Capitol Police officer at the railing in the upper balcony take aim at Alice. In the blink of an eyelid Alice had pulled her Bowie knife and thrown it, but the gun remained in the Capitol Police officer's hand. Alice raised her hand and the Bowie knife reappeared in her hand. It was glistening with liquid. Strangely the Capitol Police officer at the balcony did not fire. Alice looked genuinely puzzled. At first, I thought she had missed, but she hadn't. The Capitol Police officer had turned just as Alice had thrown the Bowie knife. His eyes rolled slowly downwards as a red slit appeared across his suit. Then the upper third of his body slid over the side of the balcony onto the floor below.

For a brief moment, Alice looked startled and disturbed. Then she was all business again. "The rest of you police officers," she rasped, "throw your guns down onto the floor down here if you don't wish to suffer the same fate." Then, for the first time since the accident, Alice spoke to me, "Arianne, gather up all the guns and put them into a garbage can." I did as she asked and Alice pulled out the Jabberwock Eyestaff. A brief burst from the Eyestaff vaporized the garbage can and its contents. I looked around me at the stark terror on the faces of all the politicians and ordinary observers. "Alice, how could you do this?" I thought. To the right of me, I heard a thump. Someone had fainted.

Alice pulled out a bong and blew a smoke portal, but this portal was like none that I had seen before. As the smoke cleared, a dark, gray curtain of screaming faces floated in the center of the portal. Alice aimed the Eyestaff at the center of the wavering, gray curtain of faces, and fired until the Eyestaff's charge was completely drained. The gray, wavering curtain of screaming faces slowly dissolved, revealing behind it an endless, ever-narrowing whirlpool of roaring, dancing flames.

End of Chapter 2

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights. The original "Inferno" was, of course, written by Dante.

Version 3

Chapter 3: Chapter 3  
Chapter 3: "Descent"

Have you ever been so scared that you found it impossible to move? That's what had happened to me and nearly everyone else on the lower floor of the U.S. Senate. We were all hypnotized by the slowly revolving, endlessly narrowing whirlpool of flames before us. Not a soul was in sight in the upper floors: they had all fled out the stairways to wherever those stairways led. The only sound was TV cameras rolling and the low crackling roar of the flames in the portal.

The sound of a second portal opening disturbed the near silence. The Hatter, dressed up in his finest suit and hat, stepped out of the portal and walked up to me. His portal closed behind him. "I recently rigged up a television in my study and have been watching," said Hatter. "I've got the only television in all of Wonderland, and now nearly all of Wonderland is in my study watching the news. Everyone is worried. Everyone knows about the accident in the room with Alice's weapons locker. Everyone knows about the Capitol Police Officer who got killed." Hatter offered me his arm, and, suddenly, for probably the first time in my life, I was very glad to see him.

"There's no need to fear! The Hatter is here!" It was surely the first joke that the Hatter had ever made in his life. "I came as soon as I realized what was happening. When that rage potion wears off, Alice will probably collapse. Wherever she goes, I need to go along to make sure that everyone gets back."

Alice walked among the senators who all sat quietly frozen in place and counted heads. There were 74 senators present. Of those 74, 16 were women. Alice finally walked to the front and spoke. "All of you who are senators are going on a little trip with me. The rest of you are free to leave as soon as the ice melts." Then Alice walked up to Senator Joe Lieberman who had made the serious mistake of showing up that day. Alice vented her fury on him: "You sniveling, worthless, war-mongering bag of shit, you go first!" With that, Alice picked him up and flung him, screaming like Naomi Watts in a horror movie, the fifty feet or so directly into the center of the flaming whirlpool. There was a tiny flash of light, and then he was gone.

At that point one of the older male senators got up – I didn't recognize him – and said, "The rest of us will walk." He slowly gathered up the rest of the senators and they walked up to the front of the portal. One of the senators was Bernie Sanders. I saw Alice hesitate for a moment when he walked by, but she said nothing. The Hatter took me by the arm and also walked me up to the portal. "If you don't mind, I'll take Arianne through," said Hatter. Alice nodded her head. Hatter then led me to the portal and, gripping me tightly around the waist and holding my free hand, walked me through.

I saw an immediate flash of light and then heard the roar of a thousand trains as we hurtled directly through the center of what seemed a flaming hurricane. The farther we traveled, the louder the roar became. The heat from the sides steadily increased to the point that I could feel my skin start to burn as with a sunburn. After about 15 seconds, I saw a swarm of shadowy creatures, each of whom looked eerily similar to Alice in her deformed state, rise up from below. It was then that I realized that Hatter and I were not alone in our descent. Thousands of terrified shades fell with us. I could see right through them. They seemed voiceless with terror. I learned only later that the living could not hear the shades of Hell scream. The swarm of shadowy creatures from below reached us and began snatching the shades that surrounded us. One of the shadowy creatures hovered briefly in front of me and looked confused. Then he passed me over. A moment later Hatter and I landed. Hatter immediately pulled me away from our landing point and hurried me as far as possible in a few seconds. Alice and 73 senators arrived a few moments later. Senator Lieberman, of course, had already arrived. Senator Kennedy almost landed on top of him.

End of Chapter 3

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 2

Chapter 4: Chapter 4  
Chapter 4: "The Vestibule of Hell"

There we were: 74 U.S. Senators, the Mad Hatter decked out in his dandy finest, Alice whacked out of her gourd on enough rage potion to kill Ann Coulter, and me. Why me? The Senators mumbled among themselves and seemed dazed by their surroundings – who wouldn't be? – and Alice stared into what appeared to be empty space. It took a few moments, but we all soon became aware that the apparently empty space around us was filled with the shadowy creatures and their captured shades whom we had seen in our descent. The creatures and shades streamed steadily toward what seemed to be a river in the distance.

We all looked around us to take in the environment. The air was heavy and dirty with grit. It took effort just to breathe. The sky was a filthy, beclouded gray. Everything was bathed in a dim, silvery twilight. Alice, in what was to become a comical ritual during the course of our journey, counted heads. Even in her crazed state of mind, she was worried, like a kindergarten teacher, about losing someone.

All were accounted for and, as we moved forward toward the river, Alice leading the way, we encountered the first of Hell's damned souls. Large groups of shades ran in endless circles chasing after fluttering flags that always stayed just out of reach. These shades were chased by what seemed to be great clouds of stinging insects. We weren't really sure. As we walked, the shades, the flags, and the swarms of insects passed right through us. The shades seemed unaware of our existence. Living creatures in the midst of the dead: we were the ghosts.

After perhaps twenty minutes of walking in the stinking, grassless, maggot-infested mud, we reached the edge of the river. An enormous flat raft pulled up to the side of the river. An extremely ancient, horrifyingly ugly old man with albino skin and snow white hair tied up the raft. Flailing his oar at the damned souls on the river bank, he filled his raft. He noticed Alice, the Senators, Hatter, and me.

"What are you doing here?" he roared. "This is no place for living souls. Only the dead and damned cross here." I was afraid to speak, and Hatter held his index finger to his lips while looking at me. All the Senators were still, not a one dared to speak. Alice, however, was fearless. "I am here to educate these fools in the eternal price of selfishness and cruelty. I do not need your permission or your raft to cross." The ancient albino stared back. "Then you are a guide. It has been over 500 years since the last guide came through here. You may pass by your own means, but my raft is unavailable."

The Hatter, at this point, could not stifle his curiosity. "How did you know to address us in English? Could we not have just as easily been French or Germans?" The albino's glare softened and he actually looked a bit amused. "I know Americans when I see them. I'm older than the Earth itself. I, like all of the other living inhabitants of Hell, speak all languages. I've had an eternity to learn, and little to occupy my mind." Hatter did not ask what was so distinctive about Americans. He already knew.

Alice walked to the border of the river and blew a smoke portal. On the distant shore, I saw another portal open. This was the first time I had ever seen the entrance and destination points of one of Alice's portals at the same time. This portal would stay open for only a few minutes at best, and Alice hurried us through, passing last herself.

End of Chapter 4

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5  
Chapter 5: Minos

Upon passing through the portal, we looked up and saw dimly in the distance a stone wall of unimaginable height that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. Behind us, we saw that the ferryman had filled his raft. We wanted to reach the wall before he landed his raft and discharged his cargo, and thus walked swiftly across the deserted mudscape.

After perhaps ten minutes of a brisk pace, we reached the wall. Above a deserted entrance were nine lines in what appeared to be Latin. The Hatter offered to translate:

I AM THE ENTRANCE INTO THE CITY OF ETERNAL PAIN

I AM THE ENTRANCE INTO A CITY OF BANISHED PEOPLE

I AM THE ENTRANCE INTO A LAND OF SORROW UNENDING

JUSTICE FOR VICTIMS IS MY PURPOSE

PUNISHMENT OF EVIL IS MY FUNCTION

I WAS CREATED BY HOLY OMNIPOTENCE

ONLY THOSE CREATIONS OF CELESTIAL POWER CAME BEFORE ME

PAST THE ENDING OF ALL TIME SHALL I EXIST

RELINQUISH ALL HOPE, DAMNED SOULS, WHO ENTER HERE

The dazed looks on the faces of the Senators told me that they all finally understood, without any doubts, just precisely where they were.

It was at that point that the Hatter spoke to point out the obvious. "Those words are not meant for the living." Then Hatter motioned for everyone to start moving forward. I, for one, did not want to wait for the ferryman's cargo to come passing through. As usual, Alice led the way. Hatter, now, took a place at the rear where he stayed for the rest of the journey. I walked beside him.

Inside the entrance was pitch blackness, giving the impression of a cave. Alice gripped her Eyestaff tightly and stepped inside. Nothing happened. She motioned inside the doorway for everyone to come inside. The Hatter and I were last in the line, and Hatter expressed a bit of displeasure with the slow pace of the senators. "I wish I had thought to bring a cattle prod. Have you ever seen such a lot of big chickens?" After a few minutes, and some verbal prodding and insults from Hatter, we were all inside. Only the dim light from the entrance behind us spared us from total blackness.

Hatter was the first to notice the faint sounds inside the cavern. Swish, swish, swish, ... Something was flailing about over our heads and all about us. Swish, swish, swish, ... Hatter fired the laser in his cane at the wall in front of us to create a brief burst of light. To the left against a back wall, we all caught a glimpse of two enormous red eyes glowing.

Have you ever seen cattle stampede? That's just what most of the senators did. Senator Lott led the pack. Hatter, who had almost been trampled, could not contain himself, "Look at that fat fuck run!" Yes, indeed. Who would have ever thought that any of those lethargic, old gasbags could sprint like Olympic athletes? Hatter muttered and grumbled under his breath. "Guess I better go and round 'em up." Only Alice, I, and a few Senators remained inside the cavern – along with whatever was creating the swishing noises.

At the back of the cavern, we heard a stone being slid, and a faint, silvery twilight washed into the room. At the back near the opening sat an enormous half-bull, half-man creature in what appeared to be a stone throne. The bull part was the head and torso; the legs appeared human. The creature had thousands of tails which swished through the air overhead.

"I have no authority over the living. You need have no fear. I am Minos, judge of the damned." Alice walked up to Minos and, facing him, curtsied as if for royalty. I wondered what on earth made her do that. "I am the guide for this group of 77 living souls," said Alice. "We need to pass to the first circle."

"You may pass without hindrance provided you do me the honor of reading the souls of three members of your group. I have no authority over the living, but I do desire, for once in eternity, to read the souls of people who are not damned, at least, not yet. I would most like to read you first."

I noticed Hatter, who by now had all of the runaways gathered at the back of the cavern, stiffen. He held his cane as if preparing to use it. I knew he was aiming its laser at Minos. Just in case. Alice assented to Minos' request and stood stock still. She did not kneel. One of Minos' many tails touched her forehead.

"You are a dreamer and a revolutionary. Your aims are lofty, but you have killed many in the pursuit of those aims. You are often racked with guilt and self-doubt over the deaths that you have inflicted, and yet all of those you killed, without a single exception, were intent on killing you. You are currently highly agitated over a man you killed less than an hour ago. He was less than one second away from firing a bullet which would have passed through your right eye and ripped through your brain. Your eyes are the only places on your body in your current form which permit a fatal blow. You would have died had you hesitated to throw your knife. That agent was a cold-blooded mechanical type who killed without thought or remorse simply because it was his job. He is now chasing flags and being stung by swarms of wasps and hornets at the Vestibule. I judged him not long ago. Your greatest character flaws are your volcanic temper and your extraordinary vanity. Your greatest virtues are your intense desire to change the world, both your Wonderland and the world above you, for the better, and your fearlessness. At the current time, you need have no fear of Heaven's judgment."

Alice remained mute and stepped backward. Hatter, rather nervously, walked forward to take his turn. Minos touched one of his thousands of tails to Hatter's forehead and began to speak.

"You are the joyful inventor of your world. You create for the delight of sharing your wonders with friends with no thought of material compensation. Your imagination knows no boundaries. You are a beloved friend of your guide, yet, wrongly, you keep her at a distance for a most superficial reason. Your worst character flaws are your

shallowness in your relationships with other people, and your obvious addiction to fine clothing. Your most admirable character traits are your generosity, and your absolute loyalty to your friends, especially your guide, who, on the surface, you seem to reject. Your love for her is so great that you would give your life for her, yet you hold still both your tongue and your heart. You are a most complex and confusing individual, but your nobility of spirit is so great that Heaven's blessing is assured. At the present moment, you need have no fear of Heaven's judgment."

When Minos began to speak of Hatter's relationship with Alice, Hatter's skin flushed a brilliant pink. Alice walked up to Hatter and stared straight at him. Saying nothing, he bowed. He took one of Alice's blackened, flaking claws, and, with great care not to cut himself, kissed it.

I knew that I would be the third soul that Minos read. Trying to get one of the Senators to stand in front of Minos would probably have required a straitjacket. I stepped forward to take my turn. Minos touched a tail to my forehead and began.

"You were the leader of a community of banished, forgotten people. You come from a society ruled by selfish, venal scions of privilege who think nothing of human dignity and throw people, as if they were disposable wrappers, into the street with no place to go. You did your best. Of all the souls I have read, yours is the purest. You have no blood on your hands, no cause for shame. The one secret that causes you grief is no cause for sorrow or regret. True love is never wrong."

I was expecting Minos to say more, but he stopped. I certainly knew to whom his remarks about true love referred. He knew why I was here. Alice took me aside behind a huge boulder and offered to blow a smoke portal to send me home.

"I'm sorry I dragged you here," said Alice. "I had no right."

"Until you have returned to your normal self, I will stay. Hatter will stay with you as well until you're back in Wonderland. He wants to be certain that you get back home."

"I'm still me," said Alice. "As horrifying as I look, I'm still me."

That was the one thing that had been worrying me the most. How much of Alice, if any at all, remained in this creature before me. It seemed that most of Alice, in spite of the terrifying accident, was still here with us.

We walked from behind the boulder to stand in front of Minos again. Alice had a question for Minos: "Who were those people we saw before crossing the river?" Minos paused a moment before replying.

"The damned souls of the Vestibule are The Opportunists. They are the ones who spent their entire lives purely in the pursuit of self-interest. They were neither good, nor evil. They were simply selfish. These days you Americans have made a cult of the philosophy of Opportunism. You call it Libertarianism or Objectivism. Out there in the Vestibule chasing flags and being stung are many, many followers of Ayn Rand. Objectivism, which is Social Darwinism wrapped up in a pretty package, was never an actual philosophy. It was a cover story intended to give a veneer of noble-sounding goals to an ideology of pure, utter selfishness. Freedom, choice, absence of coercion,... It was all a fraud to provide cover for a society in which the need for an abstraction called money compelled the vast majority to grovel before a rapacious, insatiable elite who recited over and over again paeans to the pursuit of individual self-happiness as a defense of the indefensible. I am most impressed that there is no such thing as money in your Wonderland."

Minos paused for a moment to catch his breath. His tails all twitched angrily overhead. In a moment, he continued.

"Are you familiar with The Tragedy of the Commons?" asked Minos.

"No," said Alice. "I never graduated from high school. I was...ummm... I'd rather not talk about it."

"I do, of course, already know about that episode of your life which you would prefer not to discuss. Quite understandable. The Tragedy of the Commons, in general, refers to the economic concept of a group of individuals, each acting according to what is clearly in its own best self-interest, unintentionally cooperating with the rest of the group to ensure the eventual doom of all in the group. A perfect real-life example exists. The oceans are a sort of Commons for the entire world. The oceans contain what seems to be an endless supply of fish, a bountiful food source in a world where food, in some places, is quite scarce. Some small island nations are almost entirely dependent on the fish in their waters for a food source. These nations are usually quite poor, and their fisherman in tiny boats could never make an impact on world fish stocks. However, in rich nations the fishing vessels are often enormous floating fish processing factories. The fish are seen less as a source of food and more as a source of profit. It is in the individual self-interest of each of these enormous factory ships to extract as many fish as possible from the sea. Yet if every one of these enormous fishing vessels does that, the day will come when the oceans are emptied of fish. This is the inherent contradiction of Objectivist ideology: if every individual pursues only his own self-interest, the doom of the entire group is eventually assured. The altruists, who are seen as the suckers of the world, are the ones who keep the entire place from falling apart."

Minos appeared finished with his college-level economics lecture, and I noticed Hatter click what appeared to be a pen in his suit pocket. Why the devious little fellow! Hatter had brought along one of his miniature recording devices.

Alice was squirming a bit at this point. Still a tomboy even in middle age. She had a question that she had been waiting to ask. "What levels of Hell exist?"

Minos had obviously been waiting for this question. "There are seven circles in Hell. The entire place is like a downward funnel getting ever narrower. The First Circle is watched over by Cerberus, a three-headed dog. One of the three heads is human, and you will be able to talk to him, but keep a respectful distance. His notion of nourishment is most disturbing. The First Circle is the home of the greedy. Their punishment fits the crime. The Second Circle is watched over by Plutus, and is the home of the hoarders and spendthrifts. They spend eternity tormenting each other. The Third Circle is guarded by the Harpies, eagles with the heads of women. Most dangerous creatures. You will want to keep your weapons at ready. They attacked the last guide. Aim for the wings: they pose little danger when grounded. Keep in mind that any damage inflicted will repair itself in little time. This is, after all, Hell. The Third Circle is the home of the wrathful. You call them "bullies." The Fourth Circle consists of ten concentric ditches. Demons that look a bit like you in your current state watch over that area. The Fourth Circle is the home of the fraudulent and malicious. You will want to keep your weapons at ready. The demons will talk to you, but they are most unpredictable and foul-tempered. They occasionally attack each other, and they may mistake you for one of them. The Fifth Circle is watched over by Kronos, a bent old man with a scythe in one hand. He is surprisingly agile and most capable with that scythe. You will be able to talk to him, but keep a respectful distance. The Fifth Circle is home to creators of false religions and cults. Lots of TV preachers in there these days. The Sixth Circle is the home of murderers and war-makers. It is watched over by flying dragons who will attack you. You will have a full-scale war on your hands. You won't be able to kill a dragon, but you will be able to stun them. Act quickly: one blast of their breath will kill everyone in your party except for you in your current state. You are immune to the flames and heat because you are, in your current state, a Seventh Circle demon. Once a dragon is stunned, he will stay stunned for a half hour at best. Speed is vital in traveling through the Sixth Circle. The Seventh Circle is the last one and is ruled by Rhadamanthus, the second of Hell's judges. The Seventh Circle is the home of the treacherous, the worst of your worst. The entire Seventh Circle, with the exception of Rhadamanthus' chamber and the stone walkways around the perimeter, is a lake of fire. Rhadamanthus is unusual in that he is the only creature in Hell with authority over the living. Living beings who are guilty of the worst crimes against their fellow creatures have their souls snatched by Rhadamanthus and taken straight to the lake of fire. A demon is sent up to occupy the still-living body. You will find Satan himself at the very center of the Seventh Circle. He is chained to the floor and his huge wings flap constantly fanning the flames of the entire circle. Fortunately for you, the exit to Hell is found opposite to the entrance on the stone walkway which rings the entire circle. The entire Seventh Circle is guarded by an army of black-skinned demons who are impervious to the flame and heat. You are likely to be mistaken for the Queen of these demons – Medusa. You will be able to talk to them from the stone walkway. Often you will find them on the stone walkway with their legs dangling over the side. Unusually, they will pose no threat to you. They have never been known to attack a guide or a traveler. Now it is time to make your way to the First Circle. Throughout your entire trip you simply follow the stone walkways around the Circles and the stone staircases which lead to the next circle. You will be traveling in a constantly descending spiral. Never leave the stone walkways. The punishments of Hell can be felt by the living." Behind Minos' throne was a doorway in stone: the entrance to the First Circle.

"How about reading one last soul, Minos?" asked Alice in an ingratiating burned charcoal and whiskey voice.

"Got someone in mind?" asked Minos. He looked eager for one more reading.

"As a matter of fact, I do," rasped Alice. She walked toward the group of Senators, and Senator Lieberman, no fool, bolted from the pack. Alice ran him down easily and carried him tucked under her arm like an enormous, squirming sack of potatoes back to Minos. Alice set him down, shaking, in front of Minos.

Minos touched one of his many tails to Senator Lieberman's forehead and immediately thundered, "This man has no soul!" Seventy-three of Minos' tails immediately shot to the foreheads of the other Senators, who had no time to react. Minos grabbed three Senators in his tails and dropped them side-by-side with Senator Lieberman. All of Minos' tails converged simultaneously on the four Senators. Hair, skin, flesh, bone – all went flying in all directions as Minos' tails ripped away. The sound of human flesh tearing made many of the Senators sick and mass vomiting began. Blood spattered the walls of the cave, Alice's clothes, and her eerily grinning face. In a moment, it was all finished. There before us stood four astonished, blood-soaked, blinking, black-skinned demons.

End of Chapter 5

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6  
Chapter 6: "Cerberus"

"Back to work you slugs! Vacation's over!" Minos wrapped a tail around each demon and dropped him somewhere in hell via the open doorway near his throne. Minos then looked at Alice a bit ruefully.

"I do seem to have spattered you but good. I did not mean to and sincerely apologize." Minos delicately wiped away the splatter on Alice's face and dress with dozens of his tails.

"No harm done and no offense taken," said Alice. "Thank you for everything." Alice curtsied again in front of Minos, and then gave a hand signal to the rest of us to follow. Via the doorway next to Minos' throne, we entered the First Circle.

Immediately the sky and atmosphere changed. The darkened sky was filled with jagged, multi-branching bolts of lightning that extended all the way down to the surface and crashed with an ear-splitting silence. The temperature dropped to just above freezing, and an endless mixture of sleet, snow, hail, and excrement fell into a stinking swamp of icy paste. The impression was of an Arctic waste dump in the midst of a summer electrical storm. The odor choked and gagged us all. Oddly, the precipitation and lightning appeared to spare the stone walkways around the circle. They fell only inside the lower area down below. Alice counted heads.

While Alice counted, Senator Kennedy slumped against the rock wall and began laughing until tears rolled down his reddish cheeks. "That Hillary! I always thought that she was a bloody demon! Who would have ever guessed that it was literally true!" Other senators informed me that the other two missing senators were the pair from Mississippi: Trent Lott and Thad Cochran.

I stared off into the stinking, icy, lightning-ravaged swamp and wondered where all the damned souls of this wintry hellscape were. The dim twilight made seeing difficult. It took sixty seconds of intense staring before I realized that what I had thought were hailstones littering the surface of the icy paste were not hailstones at all. They were noses. Some of the idiots here hadn't realized that they had no need of breathing. The rest tried to keep out of sight by staying under the surface. They had good reason to try to stay out of sight.

Off in the distance I saw Cerberus, a giant three-headed dog, sloshing through the swamp and tossing something into the air for one of his three heads to swallow. Every few steps he would stop and snatch another to throw into the air and swallow. Then he stopped and raised his giant dog behind into the air and spewed out a hail of what I recognized even from a distance as disconnected human bones.

Alice finished counting. All accounted for. The only sound was the whisper of falling sleet. In silence, we all began walking the slight, but constant, downward slope of the stone walkway. It was about six feet wide with a rock wall going straight up at the right and a sheer drop-off on the left. No one needed to be reminded to stay away from the edge.

After about half an hour of walking, Cerberus finally noticed that the First Circle had visitors and began sloshing his way toward us. It was difficult to tell from the distance if his huge form would reach upwards to the edge of the walkway. At the front of our column, I heard the ominous sound of Alice's Eyestaff being charged. She did not, however, fire the weapon. I suspected that she charged the weapon as a way of letting Cerberus know that she was armed. As Cerberus approached, his size became more and more intimidating. It was clear that he would not only reach up to the edge of the walkway, but would in fact tower far above it. Compared to Cerberus, we were mice.

When Cerberus had reached within twenty-five feet of our group, Alice turned, faced him, and shouted "Close enough, Cerberus! No closer!" Cerberus looked amused. His human head, at least twelve feet from hairline to chin, responded with an unsettling arrogance. "And what do you plan to do if I get closer?" Cerberus' two dog heads grinned as if contemplating dessert. Alice said nothing and charged her Eyestaff again. This time she fired - straight into Cerberus' side. The huge beast jumped backwards at least twenty feet. Cerberus decided that the tiny demonic-looking creature might deserve a small measure of respect. He kept his distance.

Now relatively assured that Cerberus would not make a meal of them, Alice began questioning his human head. "You wouldn't happen to have any former United States presidents down here would you?" Cerberus' three heads all looked amused. "We've got several former U.S. presidents down here," said the human head. "The most recent is Ronald Reagan. He wasn't really all that greedy himself, but he was such an extraordinary enabler for the greed of others that his placement here was assured. You should have heard the fuss he put up when he was dropped here. May I imitate for you?"

"Oh, yes. Indeed. Do please imitate our former bringer of morning in America!" Alice smiled so sweetly. Have you ever seen a demon smile?

Cerberus began. "I don't belong here! I brought freedom to those who create wealth and prosperity! I unleashed the creativity of those who had something to contribute! I should be in Heaven for my contributions to human freedom! I even destroyed the evil Soviet empire!" Cerberus now commented sarcastically, "He pulled out just about every Ayn Rand cliche you could think of. I asked him if he really thought that I would buy all that bullshit. His answer was that most Americans did."

Now Alice had a question for Cerberus. "Does Ronald Reagan know how sharply the poverty rate rose in the former Soviet Union and the East European countries of Poland and Hungary after the collapse of the one-party Communist states? I never graduated from high school, but I do read newspapers and have access to the internet. I know what happened in those countries."

"I could find out for you if you'd like. It would take some time to find dear old Ronald in this slush." Cerberus waited while Alice thought.

"We're in no hurry for the moment. Go ahead and search." Then Alice walked back to Hatter and me at the tail end of our column. "We're going to need some water before the end of this journey. Hatter, I need you to blow a continuous portal back to Wonderland. Arianne, I need you to go back for water and chocolate. Raid my chocolate stash for at least 1 bar for everyone. Carry as much water as you can. You'll need to make multiple trips. Hatter won't be able to help you. He needs to remain here. You also need to pick up the jackbomb and the puzzle box from my weapons locker. Here's the key. I need the jackbomb to close the continuous portal after you come back. Water first."

Hatter blew the portal and I stepped through. I suspect it was quite a relief to the senators to realize that they were not totally dependent on Alice to get back home. First I filled up a basket with dozens of one-liter water bottles. I knew that the senators would not like having to share a bottle and thus germs, but they were out of luck. There were not enough empty bottles to provide one for everybody, and I was not about to lug that many bottles, anyway. I stepped back through the portal and Alice began passing out the bottles - one bottle to three people. I stepped back through with the empty basket and went to Alice's bedroom where she kept her chocolate stash. Oh my heavens! There was enough chocolate in there to last twenty years! No wonder she was willing to give it away. It would go stale long before she could eat it all. To think that the Cheshire Cat had given her all this chocolate. I didn't know what to think. I stepped through the portal again and began passing out one bar to every person. My last trip was for the jackbomb and the puzzle box. The puzzle box was a weapon I had never seen. I didn't even know how it worked.

When I stepped through for the last time, Alice motioned for everyone to move forwards and put some distance between themselves and the portal. Alice then closed it with the jackbomb. I handed Alice back her key to the weapons locker. It was only at that moment that I realized that I had been in the room of the accident. What had happened to Alice could have happened to me. It's a wonder I didn't faint.

Cerberus began sloshing his way toward us with a partial skeleton in one of his two dog mouths. "I already asked him your question. He tried everything to avoid the topic. It's obvious he knew what was happening in those countries. The achievement of foreign policy goals took priority over the human consequences." Alice wrinkled her demon nose.

"Can he hear anything I say?" asked Alice.

"Nope," said Cerberus. "He can't really hear me either. Communication between Hell's guardians and damned souls is purely mental. I can hear his thoughts. I can hear your thoughts. I was most flattered when you referred to me as a slobbering beast. Such rosy compliments will get you anywhere with me." Have you ever seen a black-skinned demon blush? I swear I saw Alice blush.

"Ask him if he really believes all that free-market crap he spouted during his presidency." Alice, I think, already knew the answer to this question.

Cerberus asked the dangling half-skeleton and frowned. "He's trying the same evasive bullshit again. No, I'm quite certain he didn't believe any of it. His evasiveness is proof of that. I think it's useless to ask him any questions. You'll never get a straight, honest answer out of this lying sack of bones. He hasn't got any meat on him, but I'm going to eat him, anyway. Just for spite." Cerberus tossed the half-skeleton up in the air, caught it in one of his two dog mouths, and began chewing vigorously. "Doggie's got a bone!" said a grinning Cerberus.

Alice finally asked the question I'd been waiting for. "Just how do things work with the damned souls down here, Cerberus?" Cerberus finished chewing and swallowed.

"It's pretty simple, really. The damned souls are fully fleshed out when they arrive here. I eat them and shoot the disconnected bones out my back end. There are currents and eddies in this swamp of slush. The bones reconnect as they bump into each other. After a couple of decades, the bones for a damned soul have all reconnected. Then the flesh starts to grow back. A few more decades and all the flesh has grown back. Then I eat the damned soul again. They taste like bacon. I love bacon. Yum!" Cerberus grinned as only an evil dog could. Reminded me of Alice when she handed the period brandy to Little Red.

"Who are the other former U.S. presidents in this circle?"

"Polk's down here. He's the president who started the Mexican-American War. Unfeeling bastard he was and is. He was a tool of the slave-owning class. No compassion for the less fortunate. McKinley's down here, too. He's the president who started a war with Spain mainly to keep a bunch of newspaper publishers off his back. Like Polk, he was indifferent to the plight of the less fortunate. He spent his presidency pandering to business interests."

"Any other famous residents whose names I might recognize?" Alice asked. I'll bet she was really beginning to regret all those years of schooling she had missed while incarcerated in the insane asylum.

"Two economists and an economic philosopher. Ayn Rand is here. I'll bet Minos talked your ears off about her. He associates Ayn Rand with the Opportunists at the Vestibule. F.A. Hayek and Milton Friedman are here. Both are apostles of free-market capitalism and social darwinism. These three are all here not so much because they were personally greedy, but because they acted as such powerful enablers for the greed of others."

"I've enjoyed our little talks, Cerberus, and thank you for your hospitality. My party needs to be moving on. We have a long distance yet to travel and a limited amount of time to spend here." Alice curtsied for Cerberus as she did for Minos. We walked briskly for about an hour down the sloping stone staircase and found the entrance to the Second Circle. Alice counted heads.

End of Chapter 6

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyright. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 3

Chapter 7: Chapter 7  
Chapter 7: "Plutus"

The entrance to the second circle did not, as I had expected, open directly into the next level of Hell. Instead we found ourselves inside a narrow, completely enclosed, stone corridor with a very steep stone staircase and tiny open windows in the stone far above our heads which allowed the dim twilight of Hell to filter through. We spent about an hour on that stone staircase stepping carefully ever downwards. During that time I pondered the question of how Cerberus had snatched Ronald Reagan and brought him back to us so quickly. The area encompassed by the first circle was so vast that it is inconceivable that Ronald Reagan had been conveniently nearby for Cerberus to snatch. I came to the conclusion that Cerberus, like Wonderland's own Cheshire Cat, had the ability to disappear in one place and reappear in another. I suspected that all of Hell's guardians possessed this ability. I also pondered what kind of horrifying torture was the fate of the damned souls of the hoarders and wasters sentenced here until the end of time. I would have my answer soon enough.

As our trek inside the stone staircase continued, the light filtering in through the tiny open windows in the stone overhead changed to a bright, evening sunshine. The first hint of the character of Hell's second circle was the odor that hit our nostrils at about the same time: a combination of raw sewage and rotting meat. An open doorway with bright sunshine washing through appeared in the distance ahead. Alice walked through first, and, satisfied, motioned for the rest of us to follow. Our joy at seeing a bit of sunshine and feeling a bit of warmth quickly turned to dismay as it was obvious that there would be no shelter from the "sun" during our passage through this circle. The "warmth" we had initially detected turned to an oppressive, desert heat. The odor of raw sewage and rotting meat morphed into the stench of apparently dead, baking bodies. Alice counted heads.

Down in the "bowl" of the circle perhaps fifty feet below our ledge was what appeared to be an African refugee camp in the middle of the Sahara Desert. So it was true: those who were first in everything in life found themselves last in everything in death. There appeared to be a war going on, over food and water, no doubt. There was not the slightest hint of Hell in what we saw. Far below our ledge, the encampment seemed utterly real.

For perhaps twenty minutes our group walked the ledge in profound silence. Not a word or sound from anyone. Even breath itself seemed to have disappeared. Alice was out in front, as always, and Hatter and I walked at the very rear. In front of Alice coalesced the shimmering mirage of an ancient man with a long, tangled white beard. He was dressed in ornate, flowing, gilt-coloured robes. He seemed a cross between Moses and King Midas. The "mirage" spoke.

"I am Plutus, guardian of the second realm. Minos informed me of your impending arrival." Plutus' entrance was not unlike that of Wonderland's Cheshire Cat. At first, we saw only the beard. Then followed the face, and finally the robes. Without prompting, Plutus began an explanation of the second circle.

"Here you will find those who were hoarders and wasters in real life. Those who spent their entire lives amassing great fortunes, but making little, if any, use of those fortunes are here. So are the wasters who spent their entire lives in self-indulgence, wasting vast inherited fortunes on purely personal pleasures. These two diametrically opposed groups spend eternity here tormenting each other. I need do nothing. They do all my work for me. Sartre was right in a way. Hell is other people."

Alice was quick with a question: "And just how do these two groups torment each other?" Alice's insatiable curiosity, one of her distinctive traits, showed even here through her demonic, converted form. Plutus had obviously been anticipating this question.

"These two groups of damned souls are punished in a manner far worse than the souls of the first circle. These damned souls do not know that they are dead. The damned souls of the first circle are punished less because, in spite of their greed, they at least were generous with their family, relatives, and friends. The souls here were generous with no one, sometimes not even themselves. This circle exists in a time warp of 24-hour cycles. Twenty-three hours of excruciating light and heat is followed by an hour of simulated night. During that simulated night, their ravaged, abused bodies are repaired and their memories are erased. They wake up after each simulated night thinking that it is their first day here. None of them knows how they got here. None of them remembers their former lives of great wealth, whether used or unused. There is in the rotting garbage heaps enough food for perhaps one-fourth of these damned souls. In a fetid spring, likewise for the water. The hoarders wish to gather, but not use, everything. The wasters immediately use everything they find. Every 24-hour period, a war breaks out between the hoarders and the wasters. There are plenty of objects in the garbage heaps that can be used as weapons. How convenient! Instead of cooperating and sharing, thus making this circle merely a place to sweat, hunger, and thirst, they tear each others' bodies to pieces and inflict the magnitude of suffering upon each other that they inflicted upon the living with their self-absorption, selfishness, and indifference. Poetic justice, indeed!" Plutus flashed an evil, mischievous grin not unlike Alice's when she handed a bottle of period brandy to Little Red at that match-making party at Hatter's.

Alice swiftly posed another question giving Plutus scarcely time to catch his breath - which he did indeed have. "Who is in this circle? Can you give specific names?"

"Our most famous recent acquisition is Leona Helmsley who in life was known as the 'Queen of Mean.' She managed a number of hotels. Her employees were terrified of her as the slightest mistake was usually sufficient to get fired. After her son's death, she tried to have her son's widow - and her own four grandchildren - evicted from a property that Leona owned. The Helmsleys were worth well over a billion dollars, yet they often balked at paying contractors for work done and vendors for deliveries. She was convicted of tax evasion and related charges and served 18 months in federal prison. When she died, she left a twelve-million-dollar trust fund to her dog, but stiffed two of her four grandchildren. After her prison term, she did become rather generous with charitable contributions, but you can't buy your way into Heaven after a lifetime of cruelty. Leona Helmsley deserves to be here."

"Wasn't she the woman who said that only little people pay taxes?" Alice reached up to scratch her head and was quickly reminded that what she had up there wasn't hair.

Plutus hesitated a moment and then replied. "That's disputed. Only Leona and the housekeeper who claimed that she said this would know. Leona Helmsley denies having ever said it. It's impossible to prove or disprove that she said this."

"Wouldn't you know this?" asked Alice.

"Minos would know, but I am not privy to everything that Minos knows."

"Any other names that I would recognize?" asked Alice.

"I've got the most famous of all real-life misers in here: Hetty Green. She never turned on her heat or used hot water for showers or laundry. She had only one dress and wore the same undergarments until they wore out. No doubt she gave new meaning to the term 'old goat'. The stench of her presence must have been horrific. Her greatest sin is what she did to her own son: she pulled him out of a hospital with a broken leg and attempted to take care of him at home after she was recognized at the hospital. Her son's leg ended up being amputated due to gangrene. Down here she is the leader of the hoarders and almost every 24-hour period, it is Hetty who starts the war with the wasters who are usually led by Queen Marie Antoinette."

"Where do most of the misers come from?" For a black-skinned demon, Alice was unusually inquisitive.

Plutus smiled at this question. "Believe it or not, most of the misers do not come from the upper classes. Most of the extremely rich end up in the first circle. The vast majority of the misers come from the middle classes around the world. They were affluent upper-middle-class types who aspired to become rich and attempted to squeeze the maximum financial benefit out of every penny spent. Needless to say, their priorities were upside down. These are people who made their families miserable for the sake of piling up quantities of an abstraction. I think I could understand a desire to expand holdings of land because of what you can do with it. However, money is purely an abstraction and has value only if you spend it on something tangible."

"So most of the misers here were middle-class types. Somehow I'm not surprised." I could tell from the look on Alice's blackened, flaking face that she was thinking of people she had once known. Her own family had been upper-middle-class people, but they were rational. She had had an idyllic childhood up until that moment when a gas line exploded destroying her entire house and sending her rocketing through a bedroom window into the snow drifts in the front yard.

Plutus did not wait for Alice to ask about the spendthrifts. "The wasters tend to be self-indulgent celebrities who got rich nearly overnight and were too immature to manage their wealth responsibly. I've been getting a lot of rap stars down here lately. Bling-obsessed idiots who give nary a thought to the future. They make their families as miserable with their irresponsibility as the misers make their families miserable with their irrationality."

Alice then sidled up next to Plutus and whispered something in his ear. I know now, only after this entire venture was over, what she had asked. Alice had asked Plutus if there were any hoarders or wasters in the bunch of Senators she had forced to come with her. According to Alice, Plutus chuckled that there were no misers in the group, but there were plenty of spendthrifts who had voted repeatedly to shovel the nation's wealth down a rat-hole of endless war and war preparation. Alice claimed that Plutus had suggested that the Department of Defense in the United States should have been named the Department of National Bankruptcy.

While Alice and Plutus gabbed and whispered like old friends, our group of Senators amused themselves by watching the war between the hoarders and wasters down below. At first they observed the proceedings as if they were watching a football game, but then, gradually, it dawned on them that a great deal of misery in the world is caused by a refusal of people to share and cooperate for the betterment of all. If Alice had brought the Senators to Hell to teach them lessons in how civilized people behave, then her plan was succeeding.

End of Chapter 7

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the rights.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8  
Chapter 8: "The Wrathful"

When Alice and Plutus had finished gabbing, she started down the walkway without a word, secure in the knowledge that no one would contemplate balking and staying behind. I found this most amusing, and it even occurred to me that Alice would have made a fine teacher. She knew how to exercise authority without speaking a single word. The trip to the entrance to the third circle took about half an hour, and during that time two senators dropped back from the main group and began to converse with Hatter in low whispers. I doubted if the senators up ahead would have heard the whisperings, but as I walked beside Hatter, I was privy to everything. The two senators who dropped back were Kennedy and Sanders.

The frustration in the two senators' voices was obvious as they discussed the morality of what Alice was doing and whether or not her obviously intended end justified her method. Hatter wisely listened without offering any viewpoints of his own. I suspected that he was entirely opposed to Alice's venture. When it came to the "uptop" world, Hatter was a pessimist. The two senators, who had both long been idealistic advocates of social change, felt that the situation in the United States was so dire and the need for some sort of jolt to the consciousness was so great that Alice's actions were justified. Needless to say, that was an opinion which they did not care to share with their compatriots ahead. Alice, in case anyone has forgotten, was the United States' second most wanted terrorist.

The entrance to the third circle loomed ahead, and Alice halted the parade. She informed me that because of the possibility of attack from the third circle's ruling Harpies, it would be necessary for me to take a place in the center of our column and to be prepared to use the ice wand which she promptly handed to me. She also handed me the jacks to put in my dress pocket. I had practiced with the jacks in Wonderland, but never expected to be asked to use them in a combat situation. Suddenly I felt very uneasy: Alice would not have given me the jacks unless she was expecting us to be attacked. I took my leave of Hatter.

Leaving us behind for a moment, Alice entered the doorway to the third circle to take a look ahead. She returned and walked down the side of our column in her now familiar ritual of counting our heads like a kindergarten teacher tending her charges. Some of the senators were visibly irritated at being counted, but no one said a word to Alice. The doorway to the third circle, like the doorway to the previous circle, led into a narrow, completely enclosed, stone corridor with tiny open windows in the stone far above our heads. The bright sunlight of the second circle streamed through and lit our way. It took about an hour of continuous walking to reach the actual entrance to the third circle.

Alice walked through first, and then stepped back in to the stone corridor to motion for the rest of us to follow. Our first glimpse of the third circle was a surprise that none of us could have anticipated. The abode of the feared Harpies appeared to be a mostly blacktopped elementary school playground with islands of tall trees here and there. Our walkway, as before, was a wide ledge about fifty feet above the circle itself. This was little comfort as the Harpies, of course, could fly.

I looked down and saw wall-to-wall child-sized shades being tormented by flocks of Harpies. Everywhere I looked I saw a group of Harpies surrounding, teasing, and torturing a child-sized shade. Each group of Harpies would push its victim back and forth for a minute or two and then twist the shade's arms and legs off as if removing the limbs from a doll. The Harpies would tear, munch, and chew at the limbs right in front of the victim and then toss the stripped bones on top of the now limbless victim who was always lying face-up. To finish the torment, the Harpies would carry the now limbless victim into the air and play a game of catch with the living slab. Eventually the Harpies would tire of their victim and toss the slab down onto the playground from hundreds of feet in the air. The slab would splatter on impact.

Our entire group watched the spectacles below and above for five minutes, or possibly it was ten, before moving forwards. The sense of foreboding and menace in this circle of Hell exceeded anything we had felt before. We all knew that eventually at least one Harpy, or possibly an entire flock of them, would land on our walkway to threaten us. I tightened my grip on my ice wand and felt in my dress pocket for the jacks weapon.

My fear did not take long to become reality. As our column marched forward, a flock of Harpies playing catch in the air with a limbless slab tossed the slab down onto the walkway directly in front of us. Of course, we could be neither seen nor heard by the damned souls of Hell. Alice walked right through the slab, and the rest of us did likewise. This seemed to irritate the group of Harpies who had been playing at catch with that particular slab, and the leader of the group landed directly in front of Alice, who did not flinch.

"Since when did you learn to step right through a soul, Medusa? And who are the rest of these interlopers? Are you on holiday from the seventh circle?"

"I am not Medusa," rasped Alice. She waited to see if the Harpy would realize the mistake from the certain difference in voice. I was thankful that the Harpy and Alice both spoke loudly enough so that I could hear. There were no background noises in this circle at all. Deafening silence was all that I could hear.

"Not Medusa?" The Harpy flapped its wings and hovered directly in front of Alice with the obvious intent of intimidation. "You sure look like her, but I admit the voice is off. Just who are you then? Are you a guide? That would explain all these interlopers who trail behind you. Would you be upset if I used any of them for a little game of catch? How about one of the women in your column? Perhaps that one in the blue, pleated dress?" There was only one woman in the entire group besides Alice in a blue, pleated dress. Me.

The Harpy did not know it, of course, but she had made the worst of all possible mistakes. She had threatened me. I knew Alice well enough to know that she would have blown the entire third circle to a pile of rubble to protect me. Nevertheless, I tossed the ice wand into my left hand and grabbed for the jacks. Before I could throw the jacks at the hovering Harpy, Alice had unsheathed her Bowie knife and had made a point-blank throw connect. The Harpy's head flew like a soccer ball on its way to a goal, and the rest of the Harpy's airborne troop came swooping down on us.

Alice grabbed her cards weapon and fired in a wide spread into the troop with several cards striking each Harpy. A few cards missed, but most hit their mark. The troop kept coming, and Alice threw her knife again the instant it returned to her upraised hand. Another Harpy head went flying. From the back of our column, I saw the beam of Hatter's cane laser criss-crossing the flying troop. I added a throw of the jacks, and the entire troop of Harpies exploded into a rain of reeking meat chunks.

Alice quickly blew a smoke portal to the most distant part of the walkway that we could see, and repeated the process a few times more until the exit was within view. She blew a smoke portal back to our waiting column and herded us through with an explicit urgency. As we stepped through the portal to a point on the ledge just yards from the exit to the third circle, Alice spoke for all of us with her only comment about the eternal home of the world's bullies: "Let's get the hell out of here."

End of Chapter 8

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyright. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9  
Chapter 9: "The City of Dis"

Relief flooded all of us as we made our way into the stone staircase that led to the fourth circle. Relief gave way to surprise, however, as we exited the stairway after about an hour of silent stepping. Minos had neglected to mention two obstacles that stood in our way on the route to the fourth circle. The first was the River Styx. The River Styx was an enormous, filthy, foul-smelling marsh covered in reeds. The normal way to get across was by way of a ferryman named Phlegyas. Of him, I will say no more. Alice bypassed the river crossing the same as before by blowing a smoke portal to the distant river bank which, fortunately, was in view. Alice is unable to blow a smoke portal to a place that she cannot visualize. Of the River Styx, however, I have more to say. This filthy, disgusting marsh was yet another of those unclassified areas in Hell. It was home to more of Hell's Opportunists. Why some ended up here instead of in the Vestibule, I do not know. Minos made no mention of them. The Opportunists in the marsh simply laid about in the offal – I do not know how else to describe it – and scratched at all sorts of skin infections. The occasional one who stood up in view sometimes had whole sheets of skin hanging off of him. The Opportunists in the marsh rarely stood up for long as flying Furies, hideous witch-like creatures, hunted them down and bashed them with long, heavy, wooden clubs. Most of the Opportunists merely kept their noses above the viscous muck. I was informed of who the souls in the marsh were later while inside the City of Dis. Ditto for the flying witch-like creatures.

After stepping out of Alice's portal across the River Styx, we got our first glimpse of the City of Dis in the distance. A great wall stretched across the plain as far as the eye could see in both directions. Every so often the wall contained a high tower with a brilliant, reddish flame visible. The entire wall was stone blocks with gates here and there of blackened wrought iron. The sky was a rolling boil of smoke that we later discovered was blowing up from the flaming skies of the seventh circle. From here on, the odor of burning trash was our constant companion. We walked forward across a grassless empty plain toward one of the gates.

The moment we passed through the gate, we got another surprise that none of us could have anticipated. Once we passed immediately through the Wall, we found ourself in a customs area that looked indistinguishable from a modern airport customs room. We all stood in line with Alice at the head who spoke to a bored demon-clerk. "You must all have passports!" declared the demon-clerk who was astonished to have customers for the first time in over 500 years. Alice asked where she might obtain the required passports, and the demon informed her that she would have to walk to the other side of the gate area. "It will only take you a couple of hundred years to walk there." I was amazed that Alice held her temper and did not stuff a jackbomb down the clerk's throat.

Alice walked back to Hatter and asked him if he was still carrying his small hand telescope in his vest pocket. He was, and Alice borrowed it. Peering through the small hand telescope and blowing smoke portals to the most distant visible point repeatedly, Alice made the trip in perhaps a half an hour. She brought me along for company.

After perhaps the twentieth smoke portal, the infernal passport office came into view. Everywhere were signs declaring that English was the official language of Hell and that non-English speakers would be deported. I didn't consider asking where. Another bored demon-clerk stared in astonishment at Alice and me and reached under the counter for a box of passports. Alice declared, "I need 73 passports in total – two for my companion and myself that you see here, and 71 for a group that I left behind in the main lobby." Thankfully the demon clerk did not insist that each of us apply for a passport singly. The passports did not contain any information at all and simply stated "Permit to pass through Dis." The demon-clerk stamped all 73 passports with the customs office seal, and then stated the price.

"That'll be an arm and a leg!" The demon-clerk stepped out from behind the counter with a machete and was obviously intent on collecting the fee. Alice didn't hesitate. Whack! Whack! Thunk! Thunk! "Asshole!" The now two-limbed clerk hopped on one foot and glared at Alice. The clerk threw his arm and leg into a box at the back of the wall and shoved the 73 passports across the counter to Alice. Alice grabbed her booty and, handing the machete and its hip holster to me for a souvenir, blew another smoke portal back to our waiting group. I noticed that the two-limbed demon-clerk now showed a stubby hand and stubby foot at the points where the limbs had been hacked off. A few more hours and the clerk would be back to normal.

We passed through the smoke portal and distributed the passports to the now relieved-looking senators. We marched through the gate under the watchful eye of a customs demon-clerk, and found ourselves in what looked like a giant modern shopping mall. Everywhere we looked small shops occupied by a single demon-clerk were filled with shiny, gleaming goods. We wandered into a Dhell Computers store and looked at the prices. All the prices were in Beezlebubs. It was the same in all the other stores. There were restaurants, too: Taco Hell, Pizza Muck, McSwill's, The Mad Cow Steak House, and Dysentery Wok. Prices there were in Beezlebubs, too. I asked a demon-clerk when was the last time she had had a customer. She couldn't remember. "Nobody ever seems to buy anything." I asked her if I could see what a Beezlebub looked like. She didn't have any. "Nobody seems to have any. I've never seen one." I asked her if perhaps the lack of customers might be due to no one having any Beezlebubs. A light went off in her head. "Yeah, that might explain why we have no customers. No one has any money!"

We all went back out into the central hallway and noticed a newspaper box with a free "community newspaper." It was covered with advertising and had only a few articles. The front page article was about Hell's government planning a stimulus package to jumpstart an economy in which no one seemed to be buying anything. I couldn't help but wonder why it was important that inhabitants of Hell buy stuff. The second page had a gossip article entitled "Medusa on Holiday." It had a black-and-white photograph showing Medusa from the backside and captioned "Whoa! Medusa! What happened to that tight, little rear? Must be some holiday you're having!" It dawned on me that the photograph was of Alice. Before I could shove the newspaper back into the box, Alice had a copy along with several senators. Alice was looking at the second page. Uh, oh... Did I mention that opposite the photo of "Medusa" was an advertisement for "Sick-Fast Weight-Loss Formula"? The creature in the before photo looked like a movie star and the creature in the after photo looked like Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. "Look how well it worked for me!" crowed the skeleton.

Hatter had a copy of the newspaper, too. "Alice, I do believe that that photo on the second page is of you." Alice put the newspaper back and treated Hatter to her patented "drunken sailor walk." Unfortunately, Hatter wasn't the only one looking. Most of the senators also witnessed the spectacle. Senator Kennedy turned blue and passed out. I fanned him for a moment, and when he came to, I admonished him: "You do realize that was demon butt you were staring at, don't you?" The rest of the senators stared at Senator Kennedy, and one of the women asked him, "Perhaps anything in a skirt turns you on?" Fortunately Alice was not pissed off. She was, in fact, quite amused.

"Bombs Are Us" was another store we noticed in the central hallway. Leaving the senators in the hallway, Alice and I went in. The prices in this store were different than in most stores. The price for most of the weapons on display was in numbers of teenaged children. "We take either sex!" The demon-clerk seemed most proud of the store's enlightened policy.

We found a walkway inside the mall area that went further into the City of Dis, and spied another checkpoint up ahead. Another customs demon-clerk stood beside a booth and barked, "Passports, please!" Alice handed the demon-clerk the stack of 73 passports and waited while the demon-clerk proceeded to rubber-stamp everything without even looking at it. When the demon-clerk finished, he stepped from behind the booth and boomed, "That'll be an arm and a leg!" Whack! Whack! Thunk! Thunk! "Asshole!" Now I had a souvenir on each hip. Alice grabbed the passports and we proceeded through the checkpoint. Now we found ourselves in an area consisting of hotels, restaurants, and gambling casinos. As before, there was not a customer in sight – no doubt due to the same reason as before. Hatter walked up to Alice and said, "If you think I'm going to stay overnight in one of these hotels, you're even crazier than that Britney girl I've got locked up in my insane asylum! I don't want to even think about what comes out of the faucets!" I certainly agreed with Hatter on that point. The thought of flushing a toilet in Hell filled me with dread.

Alice reassured everyone that she had no intention of checking everyone in to one of the potemkin hotels. We wandered around looking at the names of the hotels: Hotel Hell, Holiday Sin, Village Inn of the Damned, Minotaur's Courtyard, Motel 666, and, my favorite, Ditch Inn. Kind of wondered what their bathrooms looked like. The whole lot of us, Alice, Hatter, me, and, of course, 70 senators wandered in and out of the lobbies of the hotels. In most cases, we saw one demon-clerk sleeping at the desk and a television tuned to DNN, the Demon News Network. Most of the news coverage on DNN was of the perpetual war between the Hoarders and Wasters of the second circle. It seems that in Hell, the Hoarders were seen as the "good guys" and the Wasters were viewed as evil terrorists who must be vanquished. Clips of some sort of Demon President, not old Beezlebub himself, promised unrelenting pursuit of the "evildoers." The Demon President also promised a "stimulus package" and urged all shades in Hell to do their patriotic duty by going shopping. He also promised intensified round-ups of non-English-speakers. Umm...perhaps the Demon President was unaware that nobody had any money anyway and everyone was trapped in place in their respective circles? The disconnect with reality reminded me of...

In a few cases, the hotel lobby TV was tuned to ICK, the Inedible Cooked Krud Channel with an ever-present annoyingly perky hostess who was constantly dropping things and setting herself on fire. "Hi! I'm Satchel Hay and I make thirty-minute nutritional disasters! In today's show I'll be making deep-fried lizards! Sure to add to my sexy huge backside which fills your entire TV screen every time I bend over to stick something in the oven! Yum-o!" On one occasion we saw an Italian hostess named Melons DeCaverna whose overexposed cleavage filled up the entire screen every time she leaned forward to chop up some onions. Alice nearly had to set off a jackbomb to get the male senators out of that hotel lobby.

Eventually we spotted a red-brick road leading further into the circle which led to yet another check point. This one was the exit from Dis. "Passports please!" barked the demon-clerk. "You must all have exit visas!" The demon-clerk rubber-stamped all of the passports and stamped her desktop a few times before she realized she was finished. She then stepped out from behind the booth brandishing a machete and announced, "That'll be an arm and a leg!" Alice grinned.

End of Chapter 9

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10  
Chapter 10: "The Haunted Forest"

Hatter fingered his new souvenir as we walked past the checkpoint leaving the hopping demon-clerk behind. Up ahead was the gate leading out of the City of Dis. Hatter and I had by now tired of the strange parody of the uptop world that was behind us, and could not wait to pass through the gate. Two demons standing beside the doors pulled the gates open giving us our first glimpse of the forest that lay beyond. "Beware!" said the demon on the left. "That forest is haunted. No demon has ever spent more than an hour in it." Now what on earth could frighten a demon?

All of us, except Alice of course, was by now tired and in dire need of a night's sleep. I had planned to plead with her to take us back to Wonderland to sleep, but I knew that it would probably be fruitless. Once out of Hell, it would be possible to herd everyone back in only by physically tossing them one-by-one down the portal. I was sure Alice would refuse. She might be scatter-brained at times, but she was no fool. The forest ahead appeared to consist entirely of dead trees. The ground was of a browned, barely living, grass. All-in-all, it was the most inviting place we had seen in Hell. Perhaps it was a remnant of a now-abandoned circle. The Wood of Suicides? I broke off a branch wondering if it would bleed and talk as described in Dante's "The Divine Comedy." Nothing happened.

Alice halted our procession and turned around to ask a question: "How does everyone feel about stopping here to sleep? Hatter, Arianne, and I would take turns at watch while the rest of you sleep if you agree." As far as I know, no one had directly addressed Alice up to this point, but nearly everyone murmured assent to Alice's proposal to stop to sleep. A "night" in the forest it would be. The fact that the light was the typical muted twilight that we had encountered before made it easier to think of the time as night. Alice took the first watch as we all expected. If there was anything threatening in the area, she wanted to be the first to see it. Hatter was assigned the second watch, and I got the third.

Alice came up to me and asked me to make another trip to Wonderland for water, fruit, cheese, and chocolate. I suggested that one last trip to her weapons locker might be useful: "When we pass through the sixth circle, your Deadtime Watch might be a lifesaver." Alice told me that the Deadtime Watch was stored under lock and key in Caterpillar's Oracle Cave and was considered even more taboo to take out of Wonderland than the Eyestaff. "The Deadtime Watch does not return to my hand if dropped. Its loss would be devastating for both me and Wonderland. I won't risk it. I consider it more Caterpillar's property than mine. Hatter invented it, and when he realized what he had created, he burned his notes in the hope that he would not remember enough to create another. I think he still regrets creating it." I said nothing more and waited for Alice to open a portal to Wonderland. It took several trips to gather up everything and carry it back. I also dropped three souvenir machetes and waist holders into Alice's weapons locker. Neither Hatter nor I wanted to carry those things with us for the rest of the trip. On a whim, I grabbed the shrunken head and the spinning top - two weapons that Alice had not deemed worth carrying with her. I stuffed them both into a velcro-sealed dress pocket. Upon my last return, Alice closed the continuous portal with a jackbomb and joined the rest of us in eating.

While eating, the three longest-serving women senators – Mikulski, Feinstein, and Boxer – approached Alice and asked her to end the trip and return everyone to the Senate floor. I had the feeling that the other senators had put them up to it thinking that Alice might be more willing to listen to a group of women. Alice's response was instantaneous, as if she had been waiting for just such a request. "There is something in the seventh circle that I feel you must all see. Something so important that it could change the course of history. I would take you there directly if I could, but I cannot open portals to places that I cannot visualize. I must be able to see a place, or already know it in order to open a portal to it. Thus we must travel to the seventh circle the hard way. When you see what it is that I want you to see, you will understand why I brought you all here." With that, Alice turned away indicating very clearly that there would be no more discussion of the matter.

After eating, we all went to sleep without any interval of chit-chat that might have occurred under normal circumstances. All of the senators were completely exhausted. It was obvious that none of them was used to extended, continuous physical activity – even one as undemanding as walking. I slept soundly and was groggy when Hatter woke me to take my turn at watch. "Nothing to report. Absolutely no one in these woods except us." I walked over to a tree and, with my back to it and facing our group, sat down. I could see Alice sleeping fitfully as if dreaming.

A half hour later, I noticed that Hatter still seemed awake, and I walked over to him with an unusual request. "Send me back to Wonderland to Caterpillar's Oracle Cave. There's something there I need to get before morning." Hatter eyed me suspiciously, and demanded to know what I was up to. I couldn't bring myself to lie to Hatter. I told him of my belief that his Deadtime Watch could be a lifesaver for Alice in the sixth circle in her upcoming fight with dragons. Hatter admitted he was worried, too, and blew a continuous portal to Caterpillar's Oracle Cave for me. He wished me luck with the task of convincing Caterpillar to let me take the taboo weapon with me. It took me only a few moments to convince Caterpillar of my need for the weapon. When I told him of the dragons in the sixth circle and Alice's stated refusal to remove the weapon from Wonderland, Caterpillar stated simply, "I would rather hear of the Deadtime Watch being destroyed than of Alice being killed." I returned with my booty tucked inside a velcro-sealed pocket on my dress. As I walked away from the portal, Hatter closed it with his cane laser. I went back to sleep feeling much less worried.

Three hours later, the alarm on Hatter's watch emitted its low ring, and he woke up. Hatter took it upon himself to wake everyone up, and I was thankful to be spared that task. When Hatter got to Alice, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at something beside her. I walked up to the slight incline near a tree that Alice had used as a pillow and stared at a gleaming, white, heavy metal sword and a sword holder of an identical metal that went around the waist. Hatter tried to lift it and could not budge it. It was the same for me. Whatever it was made of, it must have weighed at least several hundred pounds. Alice, of course, could lift objects of that weight. We woke Alice, and to our surprise, she was not the least bit startled at the presence of the sword. "My dream, it seems, was real."

End of Chapter 10

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the rights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11  
Chapter 11: "Lights in Limbo"

"A gift from Virgil," said Alice of the sword beside her. "I thought I was dreaming." Alice began to recount the details of her in-the-mind visit to Limbo, and Hatter grabbed for the recording button on the "pen" in his suit pocket. Alice began her story of how the sword had come to lie at her side, and curiosity got the best of our troupe of travelers. One-by-one the senators moved to within earshot to hear Alice's tale of a tea party in Limbo. I remember looking around in amazement at the way this group of adults had quietly gathered around Alice. It was like a "children's hour" at a public library from decades ago when librarians read stories to groups of aptly attentive children. Had these senators forgotten that Alice was their kidnapper? Or had they come to see her perhaps as something entirely different?

One thing was certain: Alice's shocking appearance no longer had any effect on the senators. If only Hatter had thought to bring a miniature camera to photograph this memorable scene! Most of the rest of this chapter I will leave to Alice herself - her words straight from Hatter's recorder.

"I thought I was dreaming. I was seated at a long table in Limbo with all of its illustrious inhabitants - and a few visitors from Heaven as well. I saw Virgil, Homer, Sappho, Pindar, Aristophanes, Demosthenes, Plato, Ptolemy, Galileo, Voltaire, Marx, Jefferson, Goya, Van Gogh, William Pitt the Younger and his friend William Wilberforce, Michaelangelo, Gauguin, Picasso, Rousseau, and, of course, Dante. Not all of these persons I saw in Limbo were sentenced there. Some were there, it seems, by choice: an inhabitant of Heaven or Purgatory has the right to visit any lower place for as long as he wishes. Limbo, in spite of what Dante wrote, is the lowest place in Purgatory. It is the only place outside of Hell that you will find atheists. It seems that virtue in the absence of faith is sufficient to avoid eternal damnation. Or perhaps the Ruler of Heaven had a change of heart. In Limbo, there is no punishment, but there is no sun, either. Limbo is eternally lit by stars, and has only one source of daylight: the Light of Human Reason.

Virgil took my hand and led me to the shrine. In the center of Limbo was a gigantic flame roaring what seemed an infinite distance into the sky. Limbo was lit up as if by the noonday sun in the Sahara Desert. Virgil informed me that this light in Limbo, the "Light of Human Reason" had been barely a candle flicker for decades. Its last flare had been in 1959 A.D. - the year of Castro's revolution in Cuba. For the first few years, it looked as though Castro was going to attempt the impossible: to create a society in which wealth was both nonexistent and meaningless. Reality eventually intruded, and the flame died down to its usual flicker. By 1965, the "Light of Human Reason" was once again a flickering candle. Virgil had me lay on my back to behold the roaring flame that shot all the way to the sky. 'You did this,' said Virgil.

It seems that when I opened the Portal to Hell, I created some sort of disturbance in human history. Dante joined Virgil and me in front of the shrine, and informed me that, as a Guide, I would be given the same weapon that Virgil carried in Hell: a Sword of Gabriel. An angel's sword. Virgil informed me that only the Guide would be able to lift the sword. 'It will cut through anything you swing it at - even solid rock. You will need it when you confront the dragons of the sixth circle. It has a curious feature that you are already familiar with: if you throw it, it will return to your hand in a few seconds. That knife you carry strapped to your hip does the same thing.'

Dante led Virgil and me back to the table. Everyone stood up and one-by-one introduced themselves, sitting back down afterwards. I was speechless with awe at the names I was hearing. When Plato introduced himself to me, I froze. I did not feel that I belonged in such illustrious company, but Virgil assured me that I did. Plato, of all people there, then explained to me why I was such an object of interest.

'Your Wonderland is the first place in the world afflicted with the malicious influence of money to abolish the very concept of government-issued currency and go back to the old ethos of sharing that marked primitive hunter-gatherer societies. We all know that it was your idea and you fought long and hard for the abolition with your fellow comrades-in-arms after the overthrow of your tyrannical red queen. It was only when you convinced the ideological architect of the revolt, Caterpillar, that the idea took hold and others began to believe in what was considered impossible. It was you who explained how the supposed efficiency of a money-based system was cursed with all sorts of pernicious, resource-wasting characteristics and life-destroying consequences. In effect, you abolished private property. Through this, you eliminated almost entirely the idea of theft and the need for prisons, police, guards, judges, lawyers, and, of course, charity which seeks to provide for the excluded through a process of humiliation of the recipient and self-exaltation of the giver who is allowed to bask in the glow of an imagined moral superiority. Your Wonderland has not a single soul in prison, nor a single soul in want. This is a magnificent achievement. Your citizens pursue their occupations through a love of what they do, and, while perhaps the productivity is not as high as it would be under a money-based system with profit-oriented bosses cracking the whip, the productivity is sufficient to provide everyone with the basic necessities and a few luxuries besides. Your Wonderland is not a consumer paradise, but it is a far happier place than anywhere else in the world we know of. You have made Marx's dream come true. We are honored to invite you to sit among us.'

Plato then gestured toward Marx who was sitting a few chairs to his left. Marx got up and reached for my hand to shake it. In my dream I was my old self. My hand looked normal. We sat down to what seemed one of Hatter's tea parties. We had black tea, nuts, and fruit of every type. I discovered that in Limbo, the residents had no need to eat, and joined together at the table as we did only for special occasions. In the end I shook the hand of everyone there, and even got a chaste kiss on the cheek from Voltaire. Virgil reminded me that the angel's sword would return to my hand if thrown, and then they all bid me adieu. Then I woke up."

I had expected that the positive reference to Castro during Alice's telling of her story would elicit an instant negative response from some of the senators, but no one interrupted. While Alice spoke, the only sound was faint rustling of the dead trees and the distant sounds of Dis and the other circles of Hell. Even when she finished, no one tried to pick an argument. I surveyed the faces of all the senators after Alice finished her story. In some of the faces I noticed for the first time ever signs of self-doubt. The conservatives and the realists among them seemed consumed with a crisis of the conscience, as if they were reflecting on their lives for the very first time. It was obvious from the pained faces that there were many of them experiencing a new emotion - regret.

Alice counted heads.

End of Chapter 11

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 4

Chapter 12: Chapter 12  
Chapter 12: "The Ten Ditches"

I had expected that Alice would ask me to play fetch again in yet another trip to Wonderland when she had finished counting heads, but another trip, as it turned out, was unnecessary. Hatter, who had walked slightly ahead in the wood, had discovered a picnic laid out on a gleaming white cloth on the ground waiting for us to discover it. It was exactly the same meal that Alice had mentioned being served in Limbo: black tea, nuts, and fruit of every type. There was also a small shovel and a bag full of large, flat, smooth leaves. I couldn't help smiling at that. It was clear what the shovel was for. "Alice," said Hatter, "it seems your friends in Limbo have left breakfast for us." Fortunately there were no ants in Hell.

After our meal, Hatter assigned one of the male senators the task of carrying the sack of leaves with the small shovel inside. Alice pondered over what to do with the white cloth and leftovers, but the cloth and leftovers shimmered a moment and then gradually disappeared like one of Cheshire's grins. It seemed Alice's friends in Limbo were watching over us all.

The question of which way to go next was not really a problem: there was a vague path of sorts before us and Alice decided to follow it. Within an hour the stone wall of the edge of the circle – I would guess that the City of Dis was a circle even if it was not mentioned by Minos – came into view. Distances in the circles were a mystery to me, and I decided that we must be skimming the very edges of each circle. If we were to walk straight across the center of a circle, the vastness of the area would result in a trek that exceeded our lifespans. With this in mind, the layout of the Fourth Circle, known among the Demons as "Malebolge," was a very unpleasant surprise to me. Minos had described the Fourth Circle as "ten concentric ditches." I hadn't realized then the full import of this statement.

Alice turned around and shouted "Bathroom break! Lose it now or hold it!" The senator with the bag sheepishly held it up and asked "Anybody need it?" There were several who did, but, with considerable fear of being separated from the group, none walked far enough into the woods to be out of sight of all of us. Surely by now they all realized that Alice would count heads again before leading us all into the stairway to the Fourth Circle? An unexpected problem appeared at this point as one of the senators had an asthma attack. "Hatter," asked Alice, "is your clinic equipped to deal with asthmatics?" Wonderland's air was as pure as the air in Hawaii. We had no asthma sufferers in Wonderland. At that point, Alice had the idea of dropping off any asthmatics in her old insane asylum where she knew they were equipped to deal with asthma attacks and would not bother with the usual bureaucracy of the uptop world's insurance-and-payment-obsessed medical system. Hatter took the senator to the asylum and then traveled through the ranks of the rest of the senators asking if anyone else had an inhaler. He was really looking for others to send home, but did not let on. As it turned out, we only lost one because of the smoke-befouled air. I wondered what effect it might have on that senator to be surrounded by the lost souls of the uptop world's stress-overloaded lifestyle as he was tended to. Alice now began her head-counting routine. We were seventy-two, including Alice, Hatter, and me. All accounted for.

With Alice leading the way, me in the center, and Hatter at the end of our line, we entered the stone walkway ringing the circle and leading downward. Once again small stone windows far overhead were our only source of light. The steps were steep, but wide. It took about an hour of a brisk pace to reach the entrance to the Fourth Circle.

Alice stepped out first to investigate possible threats, and then motioned to the rest of us to follow. Our first glimpse of the Fourth Circle was unlike anything we had seen before. The circle was like an almost infinite version of the Roman Coliseum. Ten gigantic mini-circles, each inside the preceding, lay before us in a view that stretched to infinity. It was like staring downwards into a giant funnel, but we couldn't see the the drain hole. All ten mini-circles shared the same sky: smoke-filled, dark gray, and dropping an eternal rain of burning ash. The smoke odor was dry and heavy. Our eyes watered, and it was difficult to breathe. The flakes of burning ash, although annoying, for the moment seemed to pose no threat of igniting clothes. Clouds of smoke drifted by on the walkway which, instead of clinging to the edge of the circle like before, led straight downward in a constant low and steady slope to the "drain hole" of the Fourth Circle's funnel. The distance was impossible to estimate. We could not see the end of the walkway.

In the distance and the smoke, we saw one of the Fourth Circle's demons walking slowly toward us. The rest of us were quite intimidated and slowly, ever-so-slowly, backed up. Alice stood still and waited. The demon smiled broadly and greeted her as if she were an old friend. "Medusa! You old bag of bones! What brings you to my humble torture chamber?" Alice merely smirked, no doubt wondering how long it would take the demon to realize his mistake. The demon walked up to within a few feet of Alice and she continued to smirk. "Your clothes look a little different, Medusa." The demon looked closer. Alice said nothing and pinched one of her full, rounded cheeks. Obviously Alice was no "bag of bones." The demon realized his mistake. "You are definitely not Medusa. Who are you? By what right do you invade my domain?"

"Look backwards and you will see a group of 69. I am their guide. I would appreciate a promise of safe passage through the Fourth Circle. I do not wish any trouble, but I am prepared for it." Alice slowly unsheathed the sword given to her by Virgil. The demon backed up. "I am Malacoda, ruler of all that you see in this circle. I have seen that sword but once before. There will be no trouble. I will escort you through this circle just as I led Virgil through this circle. I would appreciate knowing your name."

"Alice." Malacoda gestured ahead with his hands and Alice walked forward gesturing to the rest of us to follow. Malacoda was what most people would think of when the word "demon" arises. Essentially, he was like an angel, except his skin was blackened and flaking, his wings were those of a bat, his hands were claws, and he had a forked tail. He carried a trident. He was completely naked from head to his goat-like feet. I noticed with amusement that he seemed to stare at Alice's backside as she walked ahead. He trotted ahead and began to speak of the ten ditches of Malebolge. When Alice turned, he noticed her rage potion-induced fireplace-ember eyes. Like a teenaged boy noticing the prettiest girl in the class on the first day of school, Malacoda was smitten.

"The first of Malebolge's ditches is filled with manipulators. These are people who spend their lives using other people for their own selfish ends. They use flattery, deceit, trickery, whatever means necessary to get what they want. What they say they want and what they actually want are, of course, nearly always polar opposites. Just as these people spent their lives driving people in their desired direction, so are they now driven themselves. My demons fill the first ditch and drive these malignant souls ever forward with the crack of a lash across the back. There is no escape as the walls of each ditch are polished, smooth rock that goes straight up at least sixty feet before the walkway is reached. Some of the clever and acrobatic have tried standing on each others' shoulders to effect an escape to the walkway, but in all of eternity no one has even reached the height of even halfway to the walkway.

The second of Malebolge's ditches is filled with hypocrites. Lots of law-and-order-type politicians and religious leaders in there. It's the land of "Do as I say, not as I do." These arrogant souls thought that they were above the rules that they enforced for everyone else. Pride goeth before a fall. They spend eternity in an unscalable deep ditch swimming in a thick, oily excrement that spills forth from their open mouths and burns their nostrils with unbreathable odors. They are covered with loathsome skin infections to complete their misery. They scratch and bite at themselves in a hopeless attempt to assuage the maddening itch.

The third of Malebolge's ditches is filled with the corrupt office-holders. It doesn't matter what type of office – political, ecclesiastical, community, volunteer, whatever. These are people who sold their influence in exchange for money, sex, material goods, whatever it was that they wanted. Again, there are lots of politicians and religious leaders in there. They spend eternity in a deep canal of boiling, sticky pitch constantly surveyed by my demons. Just as they spent their lives in sticky-fingered pursuit of luxury, now they spend eternity with the stickiness engulfing them. Any damned soul who dares to raise his head above the boiling pitch gets caught by my demons who spear him with their tridents and lift him out of the pitch for a rousing good game of dismemberment. The torn parts eventually reassemble themselves down in the boiling pitch. Some of the damned souls are so pathetically stupid that they try to keep their noses above the boiling pitch for fear of drowning – not realizing that they are already dead and have no need of breathing!

The fourth of Malebolge's ditches is filled with profiteers and thieves. When I speak of thieves, I don't mean the little ones who stole for the sake of necessity or minor luxuries. I mean the big thieves: the ones who stole mind-boggling sums of money or goods systematically as a career, not as an impulsive moment of seizing an opportunity. The profiteers are the ones who took extraordinary advantage of unequal bargaining power to enrich themselves. I'll have more to say about that later. For the moment, suffice it to say that their punishment is fitting: just as they deprived people of what they needed for social mobility, so now are they deprived of what they need for physical mobility. They are all thrown into a ditch where they spend eternity torturing each other by ripping off each others' legs to attach to their own bodies. They rarely get to use their newly acquired limbs for long as someone always comes along and rips them right back off almost as soon as the limbs have attached. Everyone has two arms, but there are enough legs in the ditch for only half of the souls there. It is the most poetic punishment in Hell."

At this point I began to wonder if Alice had fallen asleep standing up. Or maybe she was contemplating cutting Malacoda's tongue out with her sword. Alice said nothing, however, and Malacoda droned on.

"The fifth of Malebolge's ditches is for slavers and abusive managers. These are people who treat others as bought-and-paid-for slaves. Whether a person is owned by the lifetime, the month, the week, the day, or the hour, the effect is the same: the person is seen as a machine, a thing with which to get something done. The punishment for slavers and abusive managers is to be chained at the ankles and wrists and driven by demons with lashes the same as the manipulators in the first ditch. The chains, however, make running quite a bit harder. It is another case in Hell of the tables turning: those who drove others in real life are now hobbled in chains and driven themselves. The ditch is full of slave owners, factory owners, warehouse owners, restaurant owners, and, of course, the hired managers who carried out the will of the owners."

Alice finally interrupted Malacoda. "I appreciate your descriptions of what lies ahead, but my party and I are eager to press on. Could you be so kind as to escort us to the first ditch? I hope there is a quicker way to travel than just walking as it appears it would take years to traverse this circle in the conventional manner."

"This circle is unusual in that it has a walkway that does not traverse a short edge of the circle. The walkway goes straight to the center. You are correct that it would take years to traverse by walking. You will all have to travel this walkway the same way I and every other living creature in Hell travels. I use my mind to create a connection between two distant points. I will take you now to the first ditch in the same manner that I transported Virgil and Dante centuries ago. Close your eyes now unless you are very brave."

End of Chapter 12

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13  
Chapter 13: "The Manipulators"

I should have closed my eyes. I looked around and saw that all of the senators had their eyes closed. Alice and Hatter, however, nonchalantly kept their eyes open. Not a trace of fear. If they were going to keep their eyes open, then so could I, I thought. Idiot. I should have closed them. It was not a gentle trip as were the trips through Alice's portals. No, this was much worse. Like being shot through a cannon into a swirling vortex of billions of blinding pinpoints of light. The swirling and distortion made me sick, and you know what I did immediately after exiting Malacoda's portal. Even Alice got sick. Now that surprised me. Malacoda chuckled and taunted Alice, "I told you to close your eyes, my dear." The tone the demon used with Alice startled both Hatter and me. It was a tone of genuine affection. The senators noticed it, too, and looked at each other with a hint of unsettled horror. I don't think I'd want a demon to have a crush on me.

Alice, after puking, was unperturbed. We all looked down into the ditch and saw exactly what Malacoda had earlier described: a ditch full of damned souls being driven by demons who lashed at their backs relentlessly. Knowing that the damned souls in the ditch were manipulators who spent their entire lives exploiting other people, I felt no sympathy for this bunch. Alice asked if there were any famous souls in the ditch, people whom we might recognize.

"We've got the infamous 'Soapy Smith' down there in the ditch. He spent his entire life conning and cheating people. His favorite con was to open a display case on a street corner full of people and begin blabbering like a normal salesman on the virtues of his wonderful bars of soap. While he was blabbering to the crowd, he would wrap paper money ranging from one-dollar bills to one-hundred-dollar bills around a few of the bars of soap and then wrap plain paper around those bars. He would mix the money-wrapped bars in with the rest of the bars. He then sold the bars to the crowd for a dollar a bar. A crony planted in the crowd would then buy a bar of soap, tear the wrapping off, and loudly proclaim that he had won some money. The crony would wave the bill around in the air for everyone to see. This, of course, had the desired effect of stoking the greed in the crowd and people would buy eagerly. After at least half of the stock had been sold, old 'Soapy' would announce that the hundred-dollar bill was still to be found. He would auction off the bars that remained to the highest bidder. Soapy was very good with his hands, and the result was always the same: only his cronies ever got hold of the bars that had cash wrapped around them. Other purchasers got only soap. Very expensive soap, I would imagine. Old 'Soapy' used this con for twenty years. He had many other dishonest businesses – I won't go into detail. He was shot by vigilantes in Skagway, Alaska in 1898."

Malacoda paused a moment to catch his breath. Alice and Hatter both peered intently down into the ditch, but were careful not to lean on the stone wall at the sides of the walkway. I didn't trust those walls, either. The senators all wisely kept to the center of the walkway. In a moment, Malacoda resumed.

"We've got Lou Blonger, the bunko king of Denver, Colorado in the early 1900s down there. He had a variety of obscure cons. Victor Lustig, best known as 'The Man Who Sold the Eiffel Tower,' is down there in the ditch. He also had a scam involving a fake money press. George C. Parker, 'The Man Who Sold the Brooklyn Bridge' is down there. He also sold Grant's Tomb and the Statue of Liberty. He ended up in Sing Sing Prison and was reputed to be quite popular with his fellow inmates who enjoyed listening to his tales of his exploits. Believe me, he doesn't have any time down there to regale his fellow damned souls with stirring tales of conning gullible tourists."

"Anyone from more recent times?" asked Alice. I was thinking the same thing myself. Surely the twentieth century had its fair share of con and scam artists. Malacoda scratched his horns for a moment. I didn't realize it then, but he was stalling because he knew of a new arrival coming shortly that Alice would be interested in.

"We've got Gustav Raskenstam of Sweden who used to romance lonely women, often several at a time, for the sole purpose of getting his hands on their money. He did this in the 1950s. He's the most famous of the romance scammers. In this new age of internet dating and match-making, we've also got thousands of women from third-world countries who would email back and forth with potential suitors for the sole purpose of scamming the price of an airplane ticket to the victim's country when the poor fiancée-in-distress revealed her country of origin and her poverty. Some women were scamming hundreds of men at the same time. It only takes a few suckers to make this scam worthwhile. Aye! The price of love! Was it not always money which made the heart beat faster?"

By now I was beginning to think this demon had the soul of a poet. I was also wondering if he had once been human. After all, Minos had once been human, so why not the demons? Malacoda started up again.

"We've got one of the most famous twentieth-century U.S. con artists down in the ditch. Joseph "The Yellow Kid" Weil used to assist Doc Meriwether in peddling his fake tapeworm remedy which consisted mostly of rainwater. He once created a fake bank for the purpose of scamming a businessman. He used prostitutes as fake customers. That must have been quite a show!"

Malacoda was still chuckling when what he was waiting for occurred. One of Minos' tails appeared overhead clutching another candidate for the "Ditch of Manipulators". Malacoda then turned to me and the rest of our party with an announcement. "You haven't seen any new arrivals before because Minos always drops them near the center of a circle. Malebolge is laid out differently from all the other circles, however. This time you get to see a new arrival. Needless to say, there are many, many other of Minos' tails bringing new arrivals to this Ditch at this time as well, but they are farther away at other areas of this Ditch and are thus out of sight. Minos is dropping this one off at Alice's location because he believes that this one will be of interest to her. Without further ado, meet Newt Gingrich, chiefly associated with the U.S. Republican Party and its 1994 electoral platform usually called 'The Contract with America'. He died in a Swilly's Restaurant face down in a Big Swill and Freedom Fries."

"Yeah, that would do it. I remember throwing up in a Swilly's once. That greasy crap would kill an Olympic athlete." Alice looked up at the shade wrapped in Minos' tail. "Would it be possible to ask Newt any questions?"

"He can't see or hear you," said Malacoda, "but I could ask him your questions and relay his answers."

"Ask him if he really believed in the provisions of his 'Personal Responsibility Act' of 1995."

Malacoda relayed the question as asked and then waited. "It seems he is actually thinking about his response."

"Is that good or bad?" asked Alice.

"I'm not really sure. It's certainly unusual for someone about to be dropped in one of Malebolge's ditches to be thoughtful about anything." Malacoda appeared to be communicating with the shade, and then responded. "He says at first, when he was young and teaching history at the University of West Georgia, he actually believed all that libertarian mumbo-jumbo. Then, after he got elected, he started to see just how cynical the entire political process was, and how it pandered to the prejudices of the ignorant and intellectually lazy. He had a good position by then and wanted to keep it, but he was starting to have doubts about the actual effectiveness of conservative economic policies. He began to think that maybe it was all about serving the interests of a very wealthy few. Unfortunately, he had been elected to represent a certain right-wing point of view, and he didn't want to mess up a good thing."

Alice reached up to scratch her head and quickly jerked her hand back. Once again she had forgotten what was up there. All those squirming thread-like snakes – no wonder it itched. "Ask him if he actually believed in cutting off welfare benefits after five years and suspending the driver licenses of people who failed to pay child support. What did he think would happen to people who exhausted their benefit eligibility after five years, especially in poor, rural areas far from employment opportunities? How would taking away the driver license of a man too poor to pay child support benefit anyone?"

Malacoda scratched a horn. "That's quite a bit to relay all at once. Even a demon has limits to his memory. You might also want to consider for just how many centuries my brain cells have been decaying. I'll ask him your question about welfare benefits first." Malacoda faced the shade still wrapped in Minos' tail and relayed the first question. I began to wonder if Minos' tail holding Newt was getting tired or not. "The provision limiting welfare benefits to five years was demanded by the public he was representing. The working poor especially resented the benefits received by young single mothers. He didn't promote the bill because he personally believed in it. He promoted it because he believed that's what his constituents wanted. What was your second question?"

Alice tilted her head to one side and appeared coquettish. "Am I distracting you, Malacoda? The second question was about taking away the driver licenses of people who failed to pay child support."

Malacoda gulped like a teenage boy who had just been caught staring. He did not reply to Alice's apparent flirtation - was she completely nuts? - and relayed Alice's question. In a moment, Malacoda had his answer. "Newt says he promoted the taking away of driver licenses of people who failed to pay child support for the same reason he promoted limiting welfare benefits to five years. He was pandering to the resentments of the working poor who provide a lot of voting support to Republicans. He says Republicans could never win elections if they just promoted the interests of the affluent. Pandering to the resentments of the working poor is part of their electoral strategy to get elected by people who are harmed by the very policies the Republican Party promotes. Newt says that his primary interest was continued employment as a congressional representative. He just wanted to stay in office."

Alice nodded her head. "Ask him if he regrets any of the policies he promoted."

Malacoda relayed the question and, this time, the response was almost instantaneous. "Newt says he regrets everything he did because he's about to reap his reward for a lifetime of acting purely in self-interest. He says he flushed his soul down the toilet for the sake of a comfortable and well-compensated career in politics. He just told Minos to drop him and get it over with."

Minos' tail, however, did not loosen its grip. Instead, a second tail came and touched the forehead of the shade in his grip. Minos' second tail withdrew, and he continued to hold the shade in the first tail.

"What just happened?" asked Alice.

"Minos just changed his verdict. It has happened before. What Newt said struck me more as the crimes of an opportunist. Minos probably decided to drop Newt in the swamp at the gates of Dis where there's a second batch of opportunists. Minos even has a place for souls whom he believes do not belong in Hell. Deep inside the Fifth Circle is a place known as 'The Plateau of the Unjustly Condemned'. On that plateau, there is no punishment. Even in Hell, there is mercy. Minos has always believed in justice above all."

Minos' tail holding Newt withdrew. "Why are there two areas for the Opportunists?" asked Alice. I wondered if Malacoda was tiring of questions. If so, it did not show on his face.

The decision of which place an Opportunist goes depends on the amount of harm that soul's lifetime of purely self-interested behavior inflicted. Those who inflicted little harm with their selfishness usually go to the Vestibule. A lifetime of pure self-interest always inflicts at least some harm. The idea that a group of people all acting in pure self-interest will produce the greatest happiness for all has to be the most pernicious of all the Objectivist myths. That is the great appeal of Objectivist ideology for the affluent: the idea that one bears no responsibility for the negative consequences of one's actions to other people. Freedom without responsibility. A fairy-tale world for the rich: you can do whatever you damn-well please. A not-my-problem world. Those Opportunists who do great harm by their self-centeredness get dropped in the swamps of the River Styx at the gates of Dis. Opportunists are not worthy of your slightest pity. They certainly never gave a moment's thought to you."

"Are there any other souls in this ditch whose names I might recognize?" Alice looked around at the senators to observe their increasingly uncomfortable faces. A low chatter buzzed among them. She knew what they were thinking, as did I.

"A real manipulator in the ditch is Grover Norquist. He's a recent arrival. When asked why he thought the government should not provide assistance to the impoverished, he replied, 'Because to do that, you would have to steal money from people who earned it and give it to people who didn't. And then you make the state into a thief.' He does not believe in the idea of pubic facilities owned in common by all. He is an advocate of what some call a 'Night Watchman State'. He believes that taxation beyond what is necessary for national defense, the maintenance of order, and the enforcement of contracts is theft. He once compared the estate tax to the Holocaust. He has done everything possible to peddle Objectivist myths. He actually believes them."

Alice thanked Malacoda for his patience and took his hand. "Walk with me, Malacoda." Hand-in-hand with Malacoda, Alice walked slowly through the column of senators, pausing repeatedly to glare at nearly every one. She didn't say a word.

End of Chapter 13

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14  
Chapter 14: "The Hypocrites"

Alice said only one word as she passed me while walking back to the head of the column: "Seventy." All accounted for. Alice nodded toward Malacoda and he once again prepared one of his nauseating portals for us. This time I kept my eyes closed. When we all had come out, I noticed that the smoke drifting upward from the seventh circle was just a bit thicker than it had been before, and the burning ashes that fell from the sky were just a bit more numerous. I turned around to witness a cloud of smoke completely obscure the walkway and all of the senators behind it. Visibility was becoming a problem. The odor was far worse than the previous ditch. I reached up to rub my eyes and was interrupted by Alice who said, "Try not to rub your eyes, it'll make the itchy, scratchy feeling even worse." I walked back and took my place at the center of the column.

Malacoda led our column forwards and slightly downwards in silence. We all clung to the central portion of the walkway and resisted the temptation to walk over to the edge to peer over the wall of the stone walkway. It seemed Malacoda was waiting for Alice to give him his cue, but, for a while, that cue did not come. What was Alice waiting for?

After a few more minutes of trudging in silence, I finally heard Alice at the head of the column say to Malacoda, "Which one?" Malacoda looked over the edge on the left side and said, "Not yet." A few minutes more of trudging and Malacoda finally stopped and led Alice to the left side of the stone walkway. Pointing, he said, "That one."

"Have a look over the left side of the walkway. Down there among the shit-smeared shades you will see Jimmy Swaggert, recently arrived and reaping what he so richly deserves." Alice pointed at the offender half-heartedly knowing that we would never be able to single out the famous televangelist from the rest of the hypocrites. "Care to give us the details, Malacoda?" Alice stepped backwards to give Malacoda her attention.

"As I've mentioned before, the second ditch is home to the hypocrites. These damned souls spend eternity stewing in a thick, oily excrement that spills forth from their mouths every time they open them to speak or even cough. The excrement burns the inside of their noses and gags their senses. They are covered in skin infections which are, of course, made far worse by being bathed in crap. They scratch and bite at their sores with a ferocious intensity, but there is no relief from the itch. The depth of the ditch is over their heads. The ones you see are the ones who make the effort to keep their heads above the shit. Below the surface out of sight are many more damned souls who have long since given up trying to keep their noses above the shit. Most of the swimmers you see are the new arrivals. Eventually, nearly everyone gives up and sinks below out of sight." Malacoda paused for a moment to catch his breath. The odor of the ditch was not just a torture to its damned inhabitants. All of us on the stone walkways, even Malacoda, were close to retching from the vile fumes wafting upwards.

"I doubt if any of you will be able to pick Jimmy Swaggert out from the rest of the damned souls, but he's down there up against the wall directly to your left. He's a recent arrival and is here for using religion as a means of personal aggrandizement and enrichment. Swaggert is even more of a hypocrite than most of our inhabitants down there. He exposed the sexual affairs of two ministers while carrying on with prostitutes himself. One of the ministers he exposed was Jim Bakker who is also down in the ditch. Pride goeth before a fall. It wasn't long before Swaggert's own indiscretions were exposed. After the first scandal, the governing body of the Assemblies of God suspended Swaggert from broadcasting services for three months. Swaggert did not abide by the three-month suspension, and returned to broadcasting far sooner. The Assemblies of God responded by defrocking Swaggert. About three and a half years later, Swaggert was caught with another prostitute."

Malacoda paused to catch his breath. It was apparent that even he was not immune to the fumes. We walked on in silence for a few minutes, and then Malacoda started again.

"Down there in the ditch, but not currently in view, is Jim Bakker who ended up here for pretty much the same reasons as Jimmy Swaggert. Bakker was convicted in 1989 on eight counts of mail fraud, 15 counts of wire fraud, and one count of conspiracy. He got 45 years in prison and a 500,000 fine. Two years later, a federal appeals court upheld his convictions, but reduced his prison sentence to 18 years and eliminated the fine. He got out on parole in 1993. Bakker had once been a preacher of what has come to be known as 'prosperity theology' in which material wealth is believed to be a sign that one is doing God's will. As of January 2008, Bakker still owes the IRS about six million dollars."

Malacoda was grinning a bit as he finished that last sentence. Alice asked her inevitable question.

"Yup, we've got one U.S. president down here in this ditch. Bill Clinton, a recent arrival. He bought it on top of a short, rather plump, freckle-faced, red-haired prostitute who does fantasy calls. The tabloids reported that she was wearing a dark blue, pleated dress with a white apron. They also reported she was wearing green contact lenses. The press had a field day with that. He pretended to be a friend of working people while running one of the most pro-business administrations in U.S. history. He repeatedly screwed working people over with his free trade policies and his welfare reform. Bill Clinton is not your classic hypocrite, but this is one of those cases in which the punishment in this ditch seemed so appropriate that the damned soul was assigned here. Minos is quite flexible in his sentencing guidelines. He does not always place a damned soul in the circle or ditch that would seem logical. Minos believes in the poesy of judgment. We demons regard him as a genius."

Senator Kennedy eyed Alice suspiciously which prompted an immediate outburst on her part: "Don't look at me! I didn't do it!" Alice seemed to shrink from embarrassment. Who would have known that America's "first black president" had a hidden fantasy about America's top terrorist?

Malacoda looked around to gauge the well-being of Alice's party. "I take you are all quite prepared to move on? I, for one, am most eager to leave this place. Even demons are not immune to odors."

"Most eager to move on," said Alice, her face still showing a bit of impossible red.

Malacoda conjured up another portal and we all lined up. "Down the rabbit hole," said Alice.

End of Chapter 14

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 15: Chapter 15  
Chapter 15: "The Grafters"

Hatter and I usually went through portals together, and this time was no exception. After coming out, we engaged in a bit of chit-chat before I took my place at the center of our column.

"Alice will never live this down," said Hatter. "Who would believe that one of our presidents had the hots for her that much? I'm sure this is all over Wonderland by now thanks to the internet and Alice's dial-up connection to her iBook."

It was probably true. Mr. White had an account on Alice's iBook and often used it to access the internet when Alice wasn't using it. He often had gnome visitors peering over his shoulder as he perused the latest news on . Alice was in for quite a reception in Wonderland when this infernal adventure was finally over. "Alice will live it down eventually," I said. "After all, you lived it down when you ran from Alice in the mushroom patch because you were turned off by her weight. Every gnome male in Wonderland thought you had lost your mind. When Alice walked by the gnome village, they were all tripping over their tongues at the sight of her looking a bit more filled-out than usual. They all thought Alice had turned into Marilyn Monroe."

"Umm..., let's not talk about that," said Hatter. "My preference for thin women is pretty well known now."

"Yup, like we all say, Hatter prefers women who look like boys." I grinned at Hatter and waited for the inevitable protestation. It was true, of course, but Hatter thought it made him sound like a pervert. It didn't take long...

"That's not true! You know it's not!" Hatter was looking peeved and had obviously forgotten we were surrounded by senators who were overhearing every word.

"Hatter, look at me. I'm a size eight. You think even I'm a fatty." I waited to see if Hatter had had enough of this conversation. Hatter gave me a long slow look up and down that made me feel just a wee bit uncomfortable.

"You're quite attractive. Just a bit chubby. That's all."

I sure wasn't thrilled to hear that. If Caterpillar knew that, I knew who would get stuck with servicing the Hatter if he ever went bonkers again and chased the White Queen in circles around the town square in Pale Realm. I didn't really want Hatter thinking that I was attractive. I would have preferred him to think the same of me as he did of Alice. When Alice and I got back, it was clear that matchmaking for the Hatter would be our first order of duty. Maybe we could get Little Red drunk again and sucker her into remarrying the ugly old fart. Okay, I admit. I do sort of like the Hatter. I respect his genius and his loyalty to Alice. I just don't want to bed him, or, God forbid, marry him. I'd rather stay shacked up with Alice. Hatter's face could turn any woman into a lesbian. Except a blind woman - heh, heh. Little Red is nearly blind without her contacts.

Malacoda took his place at the head of our column along with Alice which was everyone's signal to line up in our usual places. I walked back to my place at the center of our column. Malacoda made his usual introduction to our current location.

"This is the third of Malebolge's ditches. It's the home of corrupt office-holders of every type who sold their influence for money, material goods, sex, whatever it was that they wanted. There are lots of politicians and religious leaders in this ditch. You will also find college professors and even high school teachers who traded good grades for sex. I should add that it's not always men who trade their influence for sex. Women do such things as well. Men do not hold a monopoly on graft." Malacoda paused for a moment to catch his breath and peer over the sides of the walkway walls. Perhaps he was looking for new arrivals.

"This ditch is also home to some of the world's worst kleptomaniacs - dictators who robbed their countries blind while their people did without some of the most basic of necessities. Even food. Down there somewhere is the former dictator of Zaire who was known to most of the world's leaders as Mobutu. The United States hailed him as anticommunist ally during the Cold War which extended to Africa. Mobutu was a favorite of the Reagan administration and visited the White House three times during his presidency. Mobutu's kleptomania was so extreme that he amassed an enormous fortune while his country slowly fell apart due to lack of investment in infrastructure. He rode around in a fleet of Mercedes Benzes to his various palaces on those roads that he let crumble. Civil service employees often went unpaid for months at a time. While Mobutu was busy sucking up the country's wealth like a milkshake at an ice cream parlour, the national currency declined so much in value that corruption and dishonesty became endemic among public servants who had no other way to provide for their families. The only people who were taken care of in Mobutu's Zaire were his own relatives whom he rewarded with high positions in both the government and in the military. Transparency International rates Mobutu as the third most corrupt national leader in world history." Malacoda paused once again before speaking of another notorious dictator.

"Also down there somewhere is Kim Jong Il, the dictator of North Korea who wallowed in luxury and grew obese while his people starved. He's a fan of luxury cars and is reputed to have spent around twenty million dollars U.S. on importing 200 new Mercedes Benz S500 cars adding to the already existing inventory of around 7,000 Mercedes Benzes that the North Korean government possesses. Kim rides in style as his people starve. An obese tyrant needs a little entertainment while he ignores the misery around him: Kim Jong Il is thought to own a collection of more than 20,000 VCR tapes. Defectors from North Korea claim that Kim Jong Il has 17 palaces and residences. Astronauts on the dark side of the Earth while in flight have reported that nearly the entire country of North Korea shows no lights while South Korea in general is brightly lit. The United States seized upon the tyranny of dictators like Kim Jong Il in an effort to discredit the idea of Marxism. This is like trying to condemn capitalism because vile dictators like Augusto Pinochet of Chile have practiced it. Kim Jong Il was no more a Marxist than China's current rulers are. Claiming that something is so does not make it so." Malacoda seemed to be getting a bit worked up, and his distaste for the subject of his discourse, Kim Jong Il, was evident.

We continued walking down the path peering over the edges. This ditch turned out to be exactly as Dante had described almost 700 years ago. The damned souls stewed in a boiling sticky pitch and were compelled to stay completely under the surface of the pitch by swarms of Malacoda's compatriots who filled the air like bats in the night sky near a cave. Each of Malacoda's compatriots had a trident just like he did and searched for errant damned souls who dared to raise a body part above the level of the pitch. Every once in a while they caught one and lifted that damned soul up out of the pitch and tore it to pieces like meat off a chicken bone. The pieces of the damned soul fell back in the boiling pitch to slowly and painfully reassemble. Some of Malacoda's compatriots down below noticed that the ditch had guests and winged upwards to perch bird-like on the walkway walls and observe as our party walked past. Seeing Malacoda at the head of our party, they knew that we were permitted safe passage, and they exchanged not a word with Malacoda. The Senators were most unnerved walking past these gargoyle-like creatures who were given to scratching their bare hindquarters with their sharply-pointed tridents. Malacoda had better manners, and kept his trident pointed downwards at the walkway as if he were carrying a hunting rifle. As we walked by, Hatter tipped his hat to the demons perched on the walkway walls as if he were a celebrity walking down a red carpet.

As we walked, Alice inquired if there were any well-known recent American arrivals in the ditch. Malacoda replied that Americans arrived constantly, and said that perhaps two of the names would be familiar as they had been members of the American Congress. Needless to say, the Senators did not need to hear the names of these two to know who they were.

"Randy Cunningham died a few days ago in prison and is a recent arrival. He is here for taking bribes in exchange for government military contracts. Mr. Cunningham received the use of a yacht named 'Buoy Toy' in exchange for arranging 16 million dollars in defense contracts with Mitchell Wade. Cunningham paid only for the maintenance on the yacht. In June of 2005, it was revealed that Wade had bought Mr. Cunningham's house in Del Mar, California for the vastly inflated price of 1,675,000. A month later, Wade put the house up for sale where it remained unsold for eight months. The house sold only after the price was reduced to 975,000. Not long after Wade purchased the house, he began to receive defense and intelligence contracts worth more than ten million dollars. The bribe was effectively 700,000. At a plea agreement in November 2005, Cunningham admitted to receiving as bribes the sale of his house at an absurdly high price, the free use of the yacht 'Buoy Toy' which he had given the new name of 'Duke-stir', antique furniture, Persian rugs, jewelry, a used Rolls-Royce, and a 2,000 donation to a party for his daughter who had just graduated from a university. The bribes added up to at least 2,400,000."

I must say that Malacoda's memory struck me as most remarkable. He seemed to go almost into a trance as he recited details of the transgressions that had resulted in damned souls ending up in Malebolge. I resisted the urge to ask him if he had a computer chip implanted in his brain. Malacoda then began detailing the corruption of the second of the two recent well-known American arrivals.

"Representative William Jefferson of Louisiana agreed to promote iGate technology to the U.S. Army and the governments of Nigeria, Ghana, and Cameroon in exchange for 400,000 in bribes. The FBI videotaped Jefferson accepting 100,000 in 100 bills in a leather briefcase at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Arlington, Virginia in 2005. The iGate CEO who bribed Jefferson was sentenced to seven years and three months in jail in 2006. Would you believe that Jefferson was caught with 90,000 in cash in his freezer in 2005? I tell you, you can't just make stuff like this up." Malacoda was laughing. I couldn't believe that I was seeing a demon in Hell laugh, but I was. Alice had a question.

"How did he die?" Alice seemed consumed with curiosity. Malacoda looked up. Malacoda looked down. Malacoda looked sideways. Malacoda scuffed his hooves on the walkway. "Come on!" said Alice. "Out with it!"

"While being cross-examined in a courtroom trial by a prosecutor, he somehow managed to swallow his tongue." Malacoda declined to provide any more details. Behind us we heard more than a few Senators struggling to stifle titters.

"I've got one more fairly well-known dictator down in the Ditch for you," said Malacoda. "General Abacha of Nigeria who was dictator up until his death in 1998. The Nigerian government that came after him estimates that he looted the national treasury for somewhere between three billion and four billion dollars U.S. In 2004, Transparency International rated him as the fourth most corrupt national leader in world history. He died in a room with two prostitutes. The official cause of death was heart attack."

"And..." prodded Alice. "Come on. What was the real cause of death? I can tell by the way you're scuffing your hooves that you're holding back."

Malacoda looked uncomfortable again. Almost embarrassed. Alice prodded a little more and out it came. "He overdosed on Viagra."

End of Chapter 15

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 16: Chapter 16  
Chapter 16: "The Robber Barons"

Malacoda placed a hand - or rather a claw - on his forehead and appeared to concentrate. In a moment, another one of his portals appeared. Malacoda went first, Alice went second, the Senators went third, and Hatter and I went through last together. Hatter stayed at the rear as usual, and, as I walked toward my place in the center of our column, I noticed Alice engaging in her head-counting ritual. Some of the Senators had still not gotten used to this and were clearly annoyed. I heard one Senator whisper to another, "What does she think we are, kindergarteners?" I could think of worse descriptions for U.S. senators, but I held my tongue.

When Alice had finished her head-counting, Malacoda walked to the center of our column to give us his now expected opening monologue. "This is the fourth of Malebolge's ditches, and it is traditionally described as the 'Ditch of Thieves.' However, most of you have an incorrect conception of what a thief is. A thief is not a kid who steals a candy bar or an adult who steals for the sake of necessities. While the act itself is theft, the fact that one has stolen does not make one a thief. Your prisons in your country are full of people who have committed the act of theft, but they are not thieves. When people steal because they have run out of alternatives for the procurement of necessities, they are not thieves. They are the expected result of a social system based on exclusion. You will not find those people here. Not a one. In Malebolge's 'Ditch of Thieves' you will not find one child who has stolen a toy or candy. You will not find any adults who have robbed convenience stores or restaurants because they were about to be evicted from tiny apartments. Those people are not thieves - not in the thinking of Hell. Here you will find people whom you traditionally called 'robber barons.' In these days, however, that phrase seems to have lost its shame. The 'Age of Reagan,' when the motto of 'Greed is good' held sway, is still with you. You, being part of the government that has enshrined this ethos, gave the people down in this ditch a blank check to commit atrocities against human dignity. You are the enablers of these monsters. Only the fact that you are still living prevents me from hurling many of you over the wall into the eternal nightmare below." Malacoda paced back and forth among the Senators as he delivered his angry diatribe. Every so often, he paused to glare at a specific Senator. Norm Coleman of Minnesota wet his pants while Malacoda glared at him.

After his pause for glaring, Malacoda continued his monologue. "As I have mentioned before, the punishment in this ditch is most poetic. As these monsters in the ditch spent their lives depriving people of what they needed for social mobility, so are they now deprived of what they need for physical mobility. They spend eternity ripping each others' legs off to attach to their own bodies. They rarely get to use their newly acquired limbs for long as someone always rips them right back off as soon as they have become attached to the body. Everyone in the ditch has been most conveniently provided with two arms, but there are enough legs in the ditch for only half the souls there. As everyone in the ditch spent life accustomed to being on top of the heap, the ripping of limbs never stops. Most of the damned souls down there were high-level corporate officials in life. We have lots of arms traders down there as well. No pun intended." Malacoda grinned.

Alice now walked from her position at the head of the column to the center to ask her now predictable question. "Any names down there, of persons or of corporations, that we would recognize?" Malacoda was silent for a few moments before he began to speak.

"I have not the faintest idea where to begin. By the letters of the alphabet, perhaps? Hmmm... A is for Abbott. In January of 2007, the Thai government authorized its public health service to purchase generic versions of lopinavir/ritonavir, a patented drug sold by Abbott under the brand name Kaletra. Kaletra is a very important drug to AIDS patients because it used to treat patients who have become resistant to first-line AIDS drugs. Among developing countries, Thailand has a very good record of providing treatment to citizens who are living with HIV/AIDS. The Thai government recognizes that it is in the best interests of all that AIDS patients receive treatment. Thailand is not a poor country, but neither is it rich. According to the World Bank, Thailand is a middle-income country with a per-capita income under $3,000 U.S. per year. Abbot does have a discount program for developing countries, but its discount price for Kaletra for middle-income countries, such as Thailand, was about $2,200 U.S. per person per year. Thailand could not afford to pay Abbott's discount price and authorized its public health services to purchase generic versions of Kaletra, which, according to the U.S. government and the European Union, is a violation of intellectual property rights. In April of 2007, the U.S. Trade Representative named Thailand a "priority watch" country, meaning that it is a serious violator of U.S. patents and copyrights. Abbott responded to the Thai government's decision by refusing to sell seven new medicines in Thailand. One of those new medicines was a new formulation of lopinavir/ritonavir which does not require refrigeration. That's an important advance in a tropical country like Thailand. The reaction of public health advocates around the world was outrage. Abbott's decision was described as the collective punishment of an entire nation's citizens. In April of 2007, Abbott responded to international shaming by dropping the price of Kaletra for middle-income countries to $1,000 per person per year."

"B is for Blackwater. On September 16, 2007, seventeen Iraqi civilians were killed by Blackwater security personnel who fired machine guns and grenade launchers at civilians in a busy intersection. Obviously it was a mistake, but the astonishing fact brought out by the investigation was that Blackwater personnel in Iraq were not subject to Iraqi law, U.S. military law, or U.S. civilian law. Theoretically, the U.S. State Department is responsible for their oversight, but the House Oversight Committee found that the U.S. State Department had completely failed in this task. The de facto result is that Blackwater personnel in Iraq operate in a legal void where they are responsible only to their profit-seeking employer."

"C is for Countrywide. Countrywide sold adjustable-rate mortgages that depended on the continuous rise of house prices to make them affordable. When the inevitable collapse of housing prices occurred, people who had taken out these adjustable-rate mortgages found themselves trapped between rising mortgage payments and an inability to refinance the mortgages because their houses had become worth less than the principal on their loans. The result was a floodwave of foreclosures. The company co-founder and long-serving chief executive officer Angelo Mozilo, however, became fabulously wealthy."

"Who are the worst people down in the ditch?" asked Alice. I'm guessing that she was referring to the corporate officers of the worst corporation in the world. At least, that's how Malacoda appeared to interpret the question.

"I'm going to guess that Monsanto officials down in the ditch are the worst. Monsanto is best known as the producer of the herbicide 'Roundup.' The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has identified Monsanto as a 'potentially responsible party' for 56 Superfund sites in the U.S. Monsanto is notorious as a producer of so-called 'Terminator' seeds which produce plants that have infertile seed. Farmers have to purchase new seed from Monsanto for every planting if they wish to continue planting that particular crop. The very idea of deliberately producing plants that have, by design, sterile seed boggles my mind. Only an out-of-control profit motive could produce such an idea. Currently Monsanto relies on an army of investigators that farmers call the "seed police" to force farmers to make annual purchases of patented seeds instead of saving seeds from one year to the next. Monsanto sues any farmer who gets caught saving Monsanto's patented seeds. Some farmers have been sued when pollen from Monsanto plants drifted into their fields of traditional plants and contaminated them with Monsanto DNA. As horrible as this is, the thought of terminator seed technology actually being used in commercial products is even more terrifying. For the time being, Monsanto has pledged not to use "terminator technology" in commercial products. Imagine if terminator technology ever got loose in the wild and began contaminating all seed-producing plants. The Washington Post reported that in 2002 Monsanto discharged waste it knew to be contaminated with PCBs into local creeks and landfills in Anniston, Alabama. Britain's 'The Guardian' reported that from 1965 to 1972 Monsanto was paying contractors to dump thousands of tons of waste that they knew to be highly toxic into UK landfills. Britain's Environmental Agency reported that the chemicals were contaminating groundwater 30 years after they were buried. Monsanto paid a fine of one and a half million dollars U.S. in January of 2005 for bribing an Indonesian official to avoid an environmental impact study on the company's genetically modified cotton. There are so many things that this company has done that I could bore you with a speech until you fell asleep where you stand."

I found it most intriguing that Malacoda chose to identify the evils committed by the people in the ditch by the names of the corporations that they worked for rather than the names of the persons themselves. Perhaps the greatest evils in the world are not committed in the name of individual goals of persons, but rather, in the name of profit-demanding shareholders of massive corporations that, it would appear, have ceased to be responsible to anyone but their mostly out-of-sight major shareholders. So much evil in the world committed for the benefit of so few. What entitles those few so?

End of Chapter 16

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 2: Monsanto data expanded

Chapter 17: Chapter 17  
Chapter 17: "The Slave Drivers"

Malacoda placed a claw to his forehead and conjured another portal. We went through as usual, and, as we were coming out, I noticed the sky seemed full of thin, black threads. Malacoda observed me looking up and commented, "Those are Minos' tails swishing back and forth delivering newly damned souls to their eternal sentence." I'm surprised that neither I nor anyone else of our party had noticed them. Perhaps it's because we had good reason not to look up. The eternal rain of hot ash blowing up from the fires of the Seventh Circle had become a bit thicker, but was still not enough to be threatening. The hot ash was merely annoying if it landed on the bare skin. It was no where near hot enough to ignite clothing, although I wondered if that situation would always be true. The clouds of smoke were a bit thicker and more numerous, and the odor had become stronger. "It will get even worse," commented Malacoda as he observed me sniffing the air.

Alice finished her familiar routine and, staying as close to the center of the walkway as possible, peered over the edge. Down in the Fifth Ditch below we could see damned souls chained at the ankles and wrists and driven by Malacoda's compatriots with lashes. It looked much like the First Ditch except for the chains and the labored gait of the damned souls. Malacoda, anticipating one of Alice's questions, informed us that there were no famous people down in the ditch - at least, none who were well-known to modern Americans. This time, Malacoda's monologue encompassed the types of people who were down in the ditch and the evils that they had committed. I was amazed that so many types and variants of slavery still existed in a supposedly modern and more civilized world. Slavery still existed, all right, it simply had become better hidden as the world modernized. It even existed in the United States.

"The least awful," began Malacoda, "of the damned souls in this ditch are the managers of big corporations employing low-paid service workers who systematically cheated their workers out of overtime pay by a number of subterfuges. For example, there are the individual unit managers of pizza delivery chains who came up with the idea of making their delivery drivers clock out and "go on break" in between deliveries. Sometimes workers would spend as long as eleven hours at the store and get paid for five hours. Taco Bell in Washington state settled a class-action lawsuit on behalf of up to 16,000 workers who were employed by the chain from February 1992 through March, 1997. Taco Bell admitted no wrongdoing, but agreed to the settlement and also agreed to pay plaintiff's legal fees. The largest beneficiaries of the lawsuit were shift managers running stores who got paid for 40 hours and worked 60-80 hours. Pizza Hut was successfully sued by Ann Coldiron who claimed that Pizza Hut violated the Fair Labor Standards Act by classifying her as an "exempt" employee who performed primarily supervisory duties. Ann Coldiron's attorneys claimed that unit managers in Pizza Hut spent approximately 90 percent of their time in the same tasks that hourly employees perform such as making pizzas, taking telephone orders, running cash registers, and general cleaning. Coldiron and her managerial compatriots routinely worked more than fifty hours a week without overtime pay. In May of 2004 the Court granted Coldiron's motion to certify the lawsuit as a "Class Action" which would include all current and former Pizza Hut employees nationwide who had been employed as "Restaurant General Managers" or "Restaurant Training Managers" at any time between August 18, 2000 and the time of the certification of the lawsuit as class action which was May of 2004. On September 17 of 2004, a Federal Judge ruled against Pizza Hut in their appeal. To systematically cheat low-paid workers who sweat long hours for what is barely a subsistence wage," opined Malacoda, "is the work of monsters." Malacoda grinned slyly after his use of the word "monsters."

Malacoda paused to take a breath. I wondered where he could have gotten such a memory, but, since he was a ruler of an entire circle of Hell, perhaps it made sense that he could reel off facts about every soul in the ditch as if he were reading from a legal brief. His next tirade was against the practice of "debt bondage" in which people are effectively enslaved by debt although they are not legally the property of the enslaver.

"Debt bondage is an odious practice in India and Pakistan where poor people are deceived with promises of good jobs and are then isolated away from the world and placed in a position of dependence on their employer for room, board, and other necessities. Everything they buy comes from the employer and they end up with debts in excess of their pay. They are forced to stay and continue working until the debt is paid. The debt, of course, is not only never paid, but continues to grow. As in other types of slavery, brute force and violence are used to prevent workers from escaping. The most common tasks performed by debt-enslaved workers in India are working in stone quarries, brick making, and carpet-making. Carpet-weaving in India is notorious for its use of debt-enslaved children. The small fingers of children can make tighter knots than adults can thus producing a finer carpet. When the children get too big to make fine knots, they are often simply dumped on the street in a different town where, without help, they are unable to find their native villages. If you own a rug labeled as a 'Persian Carpet,' you might want to consider how it was made."

Malacoda paused again to let his words sink in. I looked around to see if any of the Senators was suddenly lost in thought, perhaps thinking of a fine "Persian rug" in his own home and wondering if it was made by de facto child slaves. Malacoda began again.

"In Brazil, labor recruiters often prey on teenaged girls. They tell the girls of places where there are jobs as cooks, waitresses, and maids. The girls would agree to pay back the cost of their transportation to these distant jobs from their future pay. When the girls arrive at their new jobs, a rude shock awaits them. Their new job is to be a prostitute. The girls are informed of the huge debts they owe, and that they will not be permitted to leave until the debts are paid. These places are in remote areas of the jungle with no telephones, no police, and no law of any kind. The only way in and out is by plane. The only way to get money is prostitution. Girls who refuse to cooperate are beaten. Some who attempt to escape are killed. The rest give in. As in other countries, the boss provides access to all necessities, and the debt escalates continuously. It can never be repaid and is not intended to be repaid. The girl becomes a slave."

Malacoda looked down into the ditch. His compatriots swarmed through the ditch savagely lashing at the backs of the perpetually fleeing shades. Sometimes one of Malacoda's demons caught the back of a shade with a perfectly aimed crack of the lash. When that happened, the shade would splatter into thousands of pieces which would slowly regather into one whole piece, all the while being trampled by other fleeing shades. "Feel no pity for the souls in the ditch," said Malacoda. "They have spent their lives in pitilessness. Let them savor the taste of mercilessness and the agony of the lash across their backs." Malacoda's monologue on the types of monsters in the ditch continued.

"Teenaged girls are not the only ones on whom the labor recruiters in Brazil prey. Boys and men of all ages are lured and enslaved in a similar fashion in sugar cane plantations, gold mines, ranches, and charcoal industries. These businesses all share these characteristics: remote location, difficulty of travel in and out, lack of telephones, and absence of police."

Malacoda looked again over the side of the ditch at the work of his compatriots. Whenever one of his demons connected perfectly with a crack of the lash and splattered a shade, a smile crossed his demonic face. It was obvious that the souls in this ditch were the ones that Malacoda hated the most, if one could use a term as mild as "hate" in expressing his fury and disgust.

"There is slavery all over Africa. In Chad, the Integrated Regional Information Networks of the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs has reported children being sold to Arab herdsmen. In Mali, some Tuareg tribesmen hold Bella people. In Niger, Tuaregs, Fulani, Toubou, and Arabs hold whole generations of the same family in descent-based slavery. In the Sudan, Muslims enslave Christians and animists captured in the civil war. The Muslim enslavers claim that Islamic law grants permission for this. According to CBS News, slaves in Sudan have been sold for fifty U.S. dollars each. Most of the slaves in Sudan come from the Dinka tribe. In Benin and Togo, children are sometimes kidnapped or purchased for twenty to seventy U.S. dollars, and are then resold for around 350 U.S. dollars into domestic service slavery or sexual slavery in oil-rich states such as Nigeria and Gabon. So-called 'Shrine Slavery' exists in parts of Ghana, Togo, and Benin in which young virgin girls are given as slaves in traditional shrines. The young girls are used sexually by the priests and provide unpaid labor for the shrine. Girls in Ethiopia are sometimes recruited to the Middle East where they end up as prostitutes. In Mauritania, slavery is widespread and easily visible. The ruling class white Moors own the Haratine, who are African in origin. Officially slavery was outlawed in Mauritania in 1981, but its effects are still obvious. Not all Haratine are actually "owned" by their Moorish masters, but they live in a state of dependence on their Moorish masters and believe themselves to be slaves. Escape is no easy task given the lack of opportunities to become self-supporting."

Malacoda glared at the Senators. "Are you aware that slavery exists in your own country?" he thundered. "And if you are aware, then why have you done so little to eradicate it?" Malacoda paced back and forth in front of the Senators. "There are Americans from very recent times down there in that ditch. They were able to practice this ancient evil because people in positions of power and influence - YOU! - did little or nothing to stop them." Malacoda waved his arms and claws wildly as he ranted. Some of the Senators appeared to shake as Malacoda passed in front of them. Senator Norm Coleman of Minnesota wet himself. Again.

"Just recently, a federal case in Fort Myers, Florida ended with the successful charge of slavery. The case alleges that over a period of two years, Cesar Navarette and Geovanni Navarette had more than twelve men living in boxes, shacks, and trucks on their property. The Navarettes chained the workers, beat them, and compelled them to work on farms in three different states. The men had a rent of twenty dollars a week deducted from their pay to sleep in a van into which they were locked when they slept. Their only toilet facility was a corner in the van. To keep the men indebted to them, the Navarettes devised schemes of charging the workers for food, drink, and drugs. These schemes were designed and intended to steadily increase each worker's indebtedness. The situation sounds virtually identical to the ones I just described in Brazil. That's right. In your own country, the U.S.A. which you claim to be a first-world nation, third-world-style enslavement was going on. I'm sure that this is not the only situation of its kind in the U.S.A. This one just happened to get prosecuted. The first investigation of the situation with the Navarettes was conducted by the Coalition of Immokalee Workers. Florida's lawmakers have done little or nothing on behalf of farm workers in the state. Former President Jimmy Carter became involved and has led the fight for basic human rights for farm workers. Right now all of you senators know who has been the most vocal among you on behalf of basic labor rights for farm workers."

I did not need to be told that the Senator who had spoken up on behalf of farm workers was Bernie Sanders of Vermont. Malacoda suddenly jumped over the side of the walkway and flew down among his compatriots in the ditch. He returned with a contingent of about seventy-five demons who hovered in the air above the Senators. Malacoda leaned forward and, as Dante put it so eloquently hundreds of years before, "made a trumpet of his ass." The hovering demons swooped down, and each grabbed a Senator and flew down into the ditch. There the Senators were dropped facing the hordes of shades fleeing from Malacoda's compatriots as they cracked their lashes. The shades passed right through the Senators, of course, but the demons' lashes were quite capable of contacting - and ripping - living tissue. The demons threaded in between the Senators flailing away at the shades with perfect accuracy. Several shades were splattered near the Senators with chunks of shade flesh flying in all directions and shade blood spattering like paint, but not one of the Senators was touched by a lash. Even so, quite a few of the Senators fainted from fear.

End of Chapter 17

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18  
Chapter 18: "The Hatemongers"

About fifteen seconds later, Malacoda's "trumpet" sounded again, and his compatriots picked up the Senators and dropped them, pale as corpses, onto the walkway. Alice, who had been waiting, all but jumped up into Malacoda's face. I couldn't hear what she and Malacoda were saying, but Alice's wild gesturing with her hands and the fact that she was nose-to-chin with Malacoda make it unmistakably clear that she was furious. I was amused to no end to see Malacoda actually back up from Alice. Hell hath no fury like Alice pissed off.

In a few moments, as Malacoda spoke, wisely staying a few feet backed up, Alice cooled off. My guess is that Malacoda promised never to arrange any demonstrations again without first asking Alice. His demeanor reminded me of a teenaged boy dealing with a furious girlfriend. I must give him credit for being able to smile with Alice in his face.

It was clearly time to travel on to the next ditch, and Malacoda created another portal with his mind. Malacoda through first, Alice second, Senators third, and Hatter and I brought up the rear. We all knew the routine. The density of the smoke and falling ash was the same, and the odor was no worse. Not yet, anyway. Malacoda stepped to the front to begin his opening monologue.

"This is the Sixth Ditch of Malebolge, home of the Hatemongers. These are the people who spent their lives stirring up hatred against their fellow humans on the basis of religion, race, sexual orientation, ethnic group, tribal group, caste, political beliefs, social class, and, in some cases, lack of housing. Their punishment is most poetic and will strike some of you as positively prophetic. The Hatemongers are chained to perpetually burning wooden crosses that are never consumed by the flame. The damned souls themselves are swaddled in flame, yet their bodies, like the wooden crosses, are never consumed. Imagine spending eternity being burned alive, yet with no hope of ever dying to be relieved of the agony. This punishment was designed eons before the establishment of the Ku Klux Klan in the United States. As I said, the punishment is positively prophetic."

Malacoda moved to the edge of the walkway and pointed downwards with his claw. Down below in the Ditch was what appeared to be a cobblestone road. It was lined on both sides with the burning crosses of the damned. The flames from the crosses made an eerie glow in Hell's silvery twilight. From the distance, I had the impression of gaslights lining a London street from the 1800s. The drifting clouds of smoke substituted for fog. Only the buildings were missing. Malacoda started again.

"The damned souls in this Ditch are guilty primarily of inciting hatred, but not of committing violence themselves. Those who actually committed violence on the basis of the various categories that I've mentioned end up in the Sixth Circle, which is the home of the violent, and in the Seventh Circle, which is the home of those who are guilty of a multiplicity of willful sins. Because they did not engage in violence themselves, their punishment is lighter than the mind-boggling horrors of the Sixth and Seventh Circles. As you look down below, you see that the crosses are wrapped in flames, yet do not burn. We are going to go down into the Ditch to walk through, and you will be able to discover for yourselves that the flames are not actual fire. And down we go."

Malacoda created a portal with his mind and we all traveled through. From my place on the walkway, I watched as Alice hurried through her head-counting routine as the Senators passed through Malacoda's portal. When the last Senator had passed through, Hatter and I stepped through. Malacoda had learned that when Hatter and I stepped through, he could close his portal as there would be no more to pass through.

"The flame that envelops each cross and sinner is not actual fire. It is the flame of conscience. It is the guilt of each sinner that laps at his face and body. The greater the guilt, the brighter the flame. Thus neither the cross nor the body is consumed. You can actually pass your hands through the flames and not feel anything. The shades can neither see nor hear you, so you need not fear standing in front of them. In the Vestibule in fact, you may have discovered that the shades can pass right through you. To them, you do not exist. You may verify this, if you wish, by passing a hand through a shade."

With that, Malacoda led us down the center of the aforementioned "road" with the burning crosses lining both sides. Malacoda paused at one point to let us stare up at the damned souls. I walked up to one burning cross and timidly moved a hand toward the flames. I quickly discovered that it was indeed possible to pass my hand directly through the flames without feeling a thing. I already knew, of course, that the living could pass through the shades as if they weren't there. I looked up at the shade in front of me and watched as he writhed on the cross, head tilted backward in an eternal scream that my ears registered only as silence. Malacoda had told me once that it was truly a blessing for me not to be able to hear the screams of the damned as even the demons took eons to adjust to the constant, blood-curdling din. An endless supply of tears poured down the shade's face, onto his body, and dripped onto the cobblestone below where it evaporated in seconds. A lifetime of sin, and an eternity for regret.

"If you're wondering just precisely who we have in this circle," said Malacoda, "it's mostly people who worked in some sort of communications function such as the spreading of the news via various means, or as politicians. We've got lots of journalists, radio personalities, and street-corner leafletters here, none of them especially well-known. I think no more need be said of this Ditch. It is time to move on."

End of Chapter 18

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19  
Chapter 19: "The Usurers"

After Alice finished her usual head-counting routine, Malacoda walked up to Alice to discuss something which I couldn't hear from my distance. After a few moments, Alice nodded her head up and down which meant that she had agreed to something. Another one of Malacoda's demonstrations? Malacoda walked up to the group of Senators to begin his usual monologue at the beginning of a Ditch.

"This Ditch is the home of the Usurers. Most of you may be more familiar with the term 'loan sharks.' These are the people who spent their entire lives preying upon the unfortunate and the desperate. There have been usurers throughout history, and there are some ideologues even today who argue that there is no such thing as usury - only negotiated agreements entered into freely by both parties. Such arguments willfully overlook the unequal bargaining power between the two parties."

"Usurers deliberately design their credit products to make repayment difficult. The high interest rates characteristic of loan sharking mean that borrowers are essentially enslaved. It is the aim of loan sharks to keep their victims eternally in debt so that the interest that the loan sharks receive is virtually an annuity from their victims. Most people associate 'loan sharks' with organized crime, and although that is indeed part of the story, it is not all of the story. To avoid sounding like a college professor giving a lecture, I will pass over that other part of the story. The most common form of loan sharking from organized crime came in the form of what is known as 'payday lending.' Organized crime involvement in this industry diminished in the U.S. in the 1970s as the practice went above ground in the United States due to loopholes in usury laws. Currently in the United States, payday lending takes the form of check-cashing services which offer loans in return for a postdated personal check. It frequently happens that the borrower is unable to repay the postdated check and takes out another loan to cover the original loan. This is, of course, the traditional aim of loan sharks - to trap people in a never-ending upward spiral of debt."

"Currently in the United States, payday lending is legal and regulated by 37 states. In the other 13 states, payday lending is either illegal or not viable as a business because of usury laws capping interest rates. The U.S. federal government in October of 2006 passed a law that capped lending to military personnel at an annual percentage rate of 36 percent. The newspaper 'USA Today' reported that military officers were concerned that payday lending was financially ruining low-paid enlisted men and women, placing their security clearances at risk, and even interfering with deployments to Iraq."

"Practices vary according to country. In the United Kingdom, payday lending appears to be unregulated and is expanding. In Canada, any rate of interest above 60 percent per annum is illegal. Defenders of the industry point out that payday lenders provide a valuable service to people who would otherwise be unable to get loans. They conveniently fail to mention that most people that badly off would still be better off dealing with a pawnbroker. At least with a pawnbroker, there is a limit to how much the borrower could lose."

Malacoda now pointed downwards into the Ditch. "The punishment for usury is to be thrown into this Ditch infested with snakes which enter the usurers' bodies by the rectum and proceed to eat the internal organs as they work their way up and out through the mouths. Needless to say, being eaten from the inside is most unpleasant. After a snake has finished with a usurer, the disabled body lies on the ground for about an hour as the eaten organs grow back in a most painful manner. Once the regeneration is complete, the usurer jumps up and begins fleeing from the snakes which are everywhere in the Ditch. It usually only takes a few minutes before another snake is munching away on the usurer's innards." Malacoda grinned as he looked around for any Senators who appeared unnerved. Suddenly I realized what that earlier conversation with Alice must have been about. Malacoda quickly proved me correct. "We are now going down into the Ditch to have a look at the process. Do not panic if a snake rears up in front of you. The snakes in the Ditch can talk and that is what will happen if one wants to talk to you. Remember, the snakes only attack usurers." Malacoda left unsaid whether or not the snakes would attack a living usurer.

Malacoda created a portal with his mind and down we went. Shades writhed on the gravel and rock floor of the Ditch in obvious agony. The snakes' tails squirmed from their victims' rectums. Here and there I saw terrified shades up and running from the snakes only to be knocked down and wrapped in the snakes' coils, anaconda-style, before the snakes shoved their heads up their victims' rectums. Here and there, too, I saw an occasional snake exiting its victim's mouth leaving the disabled body still on the ground as the internal organs regenerated for another snake's meal. The look of terror on the shades' faces was the same as I had seen throughout Hell. I was silently thankful that I could not hear the screams.

A snake reared up in front of one of the Senators and spoke. "Well, hello there. I understand you own a considerable amount of stock in one of those check-cashing outfits. Have you ever stopped to consider the misery your precious stock dividends cause?" He sounded just like the Geico Gecko. I didn't know whether to laugh or be afraid of what would happen next. "I should like to give you a taste of what the eternal inhabitants of this Ditch go through, but don't worry. I promise not to eat anything." With that, the snake suddenly plunged down the Senator's gagging throat and wriggled inwards as the Senator's eyes bulged outward the size of golf balls. Down, down, down went the snake until the tail disappeared. At about the same time, the snake's head emerged from the Senator's rectum underneath his pants. The snake wriggled downwards and emerged from the Senator's pant-leg smeared in a brown paste and looking quite pissed off. Malacoda was on the floor of the Ditch laughing hysterically as the snake spoke. "Thanks a bunch, Malacoda. You conveniently neglected to mention that a live usurer would be full of shit!"

End of Chapter 19

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the rights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20  
Chapter 20: "The Jailers"

It was a silly question, I'm sure, but I just had to ask the snake. I stepped in front of him, without fear of him plunging down my mouth, as I was quite sure that he had no taste for another living human who was sure to be "full of shit."

"How do you breathe when you're inside another creature?" I asked. The snake seemed to laugh before he replied.

"The living creatures of Hell have no need of breathing, although we do out of habit. We need not eat, although we sometimes do. We need not drink, although we sometimes do. I have no need of eating. I eat the usurers because I hate them. I eat them to inflict on them the pain of that gnawing inside that all victims of loan sharks have from the stress inflicted on them. I do to the loan sharks literally what they did to their victims metaphorically. I truly love my job. In case you're wondering, the shades' digestive systems, at least in this Ditch, are completely empty." Then the snake turned to Malacoda and said, "Malacoda, that's one trick you'll never pull on me again in all of eternity. I'd bite you if I didn't already know that it would be futile." Malacoda only grinned. He reminded me so much of Alice when he grinned. Behind me I heard Hatter chuckling. No doubt the sight of the shit-smeared snake was quite amusing to him. The snake crawled off to wipe himself against the floor of the Ditch as best he could. The Senator down whose throat the snake had just crawled was still standing in place, eyes bugging out, both hands clasping his behind as if he were afraid his intestines would drop out. I'll bet he was in dire need of some toilet paper, which I just happened to have. I walked up and handed him an entire roll.

"Sorry, but you're going to have to do without privacy. Wipe it and be done with it." I did my best to avoid smirking, but I'm sure I failed.

Malacoda walked to the front and made an announcement. "As soon as our usurious Senator gets through cleaning himself up, we shall move on to the next Ditch. You know the drill." Malacoda waited until the Senator finished, and then opened another portal.

We all stood around tapping our toes and looking skyward while our usurious Senator wiped his bare, hairy, saggy tush. Gag. Malacoda then opened the portal and ushered us through. Alice went through her head-counting routine, and then Malacoda walked in front of us to give us his usual opening monologue.

"This is the Ditch of Jailers. These are the politicians, profiteers, demagogues, and tyrants who for a variety of reasons carried out or vociferously supported policies of mass imprisonment. Some were dictators who jailed hordes of their opponents - even peaceful ones - simply because they could. Some were elected demagogues who pandered to the fearful and ignorant by promising to lock up all the troublemakers. They neglected to mention that their idea of troublemakers included the nonviolent and people driven to crime out of desperation to meet basic needs. They were only interested in votes. Others were corporate profiteers who saw opportunities to get rich by providing cells for incarceration-happy politicians and by exploiting the prisoners for dirt-cheap labor once they had been tossed into oblivion. We have damned souls from around the world here: Russians, South Africans, Chinese, Burmese, Chileans, Nicaraguans, Brazilians, Americans, the list goes on and on."

Alice tapped Malacoda on the shoulder to ask a question. "Which countries of today imprison their citizens at the highest per-capita rate?"

"The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world. The United States in 2007 had 738 people imprisoned for every 100,000 of population. The United States has less than five percent of the world's population, but it has nearly twenty-five percent of the world's prisoners. In absolute numbers, the United States has about 2.2 million souls in prison. That is more than any other country in the world. You Americans lock people up for crimes that would rarely produce prison sentences in other countries, and when you do lock them up, you lock them up for sentences much longer than the sentences imposed in other nations. Your handling of criminals is barbaric and appalling. The only other industrialized country that comes close to imprisoning people at the American rate is Russia. The former Soviet Union imprisons people at the rate of 611 per 100,000 people. You are in such good company. And you used to denounce the Soviet Union as a soul-destroying barbaric tyranny. Soviet-style tyranny still exists. Just look in the mirror to see it."

Alice tapped Malacoda on the shoulder again. "What is the rate of incarceration in some other countries?" Malacoda, like a professor in the middle of a lecture, reeled off the answer.

"The rate of incarceration per 100,00 people is 487 in Cuba, 350 in Singapore, 335 in South Africa, 214 in Iran, 196 in Mexico, 132 in Saudi Arabia, 124 in the United Kingdom, 95 in Germany, 85 in France, 75 in Finland, 66 in Norway, and 62 in Japan. The median among all the nations of the world is approximately 125. Compare that to the American rate of 738. You Americans disgust me. You would rather spend a fortune on prisons than spend money addressing the problems which create so many of your prisoners in the first place. And, most appalling of all, you lock people up for private activities which harm no one simply because you cannot resist the impulse to pander to the worst bigotries of your electorate. You jail people for using drugs. You jail prostitutes for selling their bodies. Did it ever occur to you that most prostitutes would much rather work at a respectable job if they could find one that paid their living expenses? You self-righteous prigs! You pandering pigs! You virtuous upholders of family values! Have you no shame?"

Not even Caterpillar could match Malacoda in a dressing down when he got worked up. I thought Malacoda's rip into the Senators was magnificent. I began to wonder why a demon from hell might care about such things. Little did I realize then that there was much more to Malacoda than just a ruler of a circle in Hell.

Looking ahead, I saw what seemed the Amazon rain forest rising above the sides of the walkway. Branches sprawled everywhere. Farther on down the walkway, the canopy of the trees met over the walkway creating a cathedral effect. I looked behind me and saw that the trees diminished in height until their canopy was at least fifteen feet below the walkway. Malacoda had chosen to set us down at the most scenic point of the walkway. It was also the most dangerous point. Ash still rained down as it had in the previous ditches, but the odor of smoke seemed somewhat diminished. The trees themselves had a sort of wet earth odor, and the air was heavy with humidity.

"In this ditch, the damned souls are punished by being fed repeatedly to nature's vampires. Although you see at the sides of the walkway what appears to be a rain forest, it is not quite that. There are no typical rain forest creatures down there. No parrots, no monkeys, no insects - nothing that you are familiar with. There is only one living creature down there besides the trees themselves. Spiders. Giant spiders with mosquito-like mouths. They plunge their hose-like mouths into the shades and suck them dry. The mummified shade body reconstitutes itself most painfully in about an hour to provide yet another meal for the next ravenous spider. The spiders are perhaps ten feet in height - like something from one of your horror movies. Even worse, they spit venom which clouds and distorts the sight if it gets in the eyes. Their venom will affect living creatures, although as far as I know, they do not attack living souls. However, the trees were not above the walkway when Virgil and Dante came through hundreds of years before. The spiders had not the opportunity to attack."

We began walking forward toward the cathedral-like canopy of trees ahead. Alice stopped the procession with one of her questions. "Was the United States always a world leader in incarceration rates?" Malacoda turned around to answer her.

"The race to incarcerate is a relatively recent phenomenon in the United States. From 1900 up until perhaps 1975 the U.S. incarceration rate was fairly stable at about 110 prisoners for every 100,000 people. In the mid 1970s, the rate began to climb. It doubled in the 1980s and doubled again in the 1990s. From 1980 to 2000, around 1,000 new prisons and jails were built. Incredibly, U.S. prisons were more overcrowded after the prison building spree than before."

"Can you trace the rise in incarceration rates in the U.S. to any single event?"

"In 1971, Governor Rockefeller of the state of New York proposed in his 'State of the State' address to imprison all drug dealers for life and to ban plea bargaining in such cases. He also proposed that even juvenile drug dealers should receive life sentences. A few months later, the New York state legislature passed most of what Rockefeller had wanted. The penalties enacted were a bit less severe than Governor Rockefeller had wanted, but they were much more severe than what had existed before. This was the first shot in what is now known as 'The War on Drugs.' Other states eventually followed New York's example in enacting harsh anti-drug legislation. It was the Rockefeller anti-drug laws which started the rise in U.S. incarceration rates to their current astronomical levels. Harsh minimum sentencing legislation and 'Three-Strikes' laws added to the mayhem."

"Do privately-owned, for-profit prisons figure into the rise in incarceration rates, or are they a symptom of other problems?"

"Privately-owned prisons are paid on a per-prisoner-per-day basis. They have a financial interest in keeping the cells filled. These corporate prison companies, such as Corrections Corporation of America, Wackenhut Corrections, the U.S. Corrections Corporation, and the Bobby Ross Group all lobby for lengthy mandatory sentence laws. Without policies of mass incarceration and lengthy sentences, these companies would no longer be profitable."

"I've seen stories about the spread of work programs for inmates in U.S. prisons. Do they still just stamp license plates, or are they now doing work that has normally been done in factories and call centers?"

"Since the 1930s, two federal laws, the Hayes-Cooper Act and the Ashurst-Sumner Act, made it a felony to move prisoner-made goods across state lines. Prison labor was largely limited to stamping license plates for automobiles. These two acts aimed to eliminate the leasing of prisoners to private companies. The desire was to outlaw what were essentially factories within prison walls. Congress repealed these two laws, and by 1990, prison-made goods and services entered the U.S. marketplace. Among the corporations that have employed or used prison labor are Microsoft, Boeing, Starbucks, Victoria's Secret, McDonald's, TWA, Exchange Group, DPAS, U.S. Technologies, Mecca, Seattle Cotton Works, Lee Jeans, No Fear, Trinidad Tees, Eddie Bauer, Vinyl Products Incorporated, Labor-to-Industry which was once known as Lockhart Technologies, The Washington Marketing Group, South Carolina Cap and Gown, The Array Corporation which sells jeans and work clothing known as 'Prison Blues,' Chevron, IBM, Motorola, Compaq, Texas Instruments, Honeywell, ... do I need to continue?"

"No, no, no, no... that's quite sufficient. Do you know of any specific examples of 'Three Strikes' laws leading to ridiculous sentences?"

"There are so many examples that I could spend an entire day detailing the cases of grotesque injustices wrought by these laws. I'll just give some examples of the worst cases here. Johnny Quirino got 25 years to life for stealing a pack of razor blades. George Anderson got 25 years to life for filling out a false Department of Motor Vehicles application. Richard Morgan got 26 years to life for shoplifting a baseball glove. Reuben Arriaga got 25 years to life for shoplifting a seventy-dollar drill from Sears. Mark A. Bishop got 25 years to life for possession of a controlled substance. Ray Anthony Means got 25 years to life for possession of .09 grams of cocaine. Edward Parsons got 25 years to life for possession of .06 grams of meth. Jerry Dewayne Williams got 25 years to life for stealing a slice of pepperoni pizza from children. Leandro Andrade got 25 years to life for shoplifting nine videos of children's movies which included Disney's 'Snow White' and 'Cinderella.' I wonder what old Walt would have to say about this? You Senators could check out a long list of horror stories about disproportionate sentences under 'Three Strikes' legislation for yourselves by googling 'Top 150 Unjust 3-Strike Stories.' I'm sure you're all well-heeled enough to have internet-connected computers in both your offices and your homes. Don't give me any excuses about not having enough time." Malacoda turned around and began walking toward the cathedral-like canopy of trees ahead. Soon enough the trees met over the top of the walkway and completely shielded us from the falling ash. The smell of burning ash flakes was, for the first time in hours, completely gone. Instead we sniffed the odor of wet earth and leaves. We sweated from the humidity.

Malacoda turned around again to address us. "I saved the worst of the 'Three Strikes' horror stories for last. The first is a tale of a suicide." Malacoda paused a moment to pass his eyes slowly over his audience.

"In 1999, the Associated Press reported that a man who was supposed to appear in court to be tried under 'Three Strikes' legislation for possession of less than an ounce of marijuana, possession of .07 grams of methamphetamine, and a weapons violation was found dead in the garage of his house inside a van with his girlfriend. The two deaths appeared to be suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning." Malacoda passed his eyes over the audience again to gauge their reactions.

"Gregory Taylor got 25 years to life for trying to break into a Los Angeles church to steal food in 1997. Taylor was homeless and had received food from the church numerous times in the past. The door he was trying to jostle open was to the door to the church's kitchen where church employees fed the homeless. Taylor personally knew the priest in charge of the church, Father McCoy. None of this mattered in court. Father McCoy was aghast at the sentence. Jean Valjean of 'Les Miserables' received only a total of 19 years for both stealing bread and several escape attempts. To this day, Father McCoy and Taylor exchange letters."

Malacoda paused again. "If anyone is wondering, your Supreme Court in 2003 upheld the constitutionality of 'Three Strikes' laws and refused to reverse any sentences. Your Constitution's Eighth Amendment bans 'cruel and unusual punishment.' I think all of the cases I have mentioned well merit that description. So much for justice."

Malacoda waded through the crowd of Senators who, of course, stepped widely aside for him. Malacoda paused in front of Senator Schumer of New York. "You have a long history of pandering to the electorate by advocating harsh sentencing and 'Three Strikes' laws. Anything to get elected, hmmm...? Do you really think locking away a homeless man for twenty-five years to life for trying to jimmy open the door to a church kitchen used for feeding homeless people represents justice?" Malacoda moved his demonic face inches away from Senator Schumer's obviously terrified face. Malacoda pulled his claw back and struck Senator Schumer across the face with the back of the claw. "The (WHACK!) sentence (WHACK!) must (WHACK!) fit (WHACK!) the (WHACK!) crime!"

I dashed up to Alice and tugged on her dress. "Aren't you going to try to stop him?"

Alice looked coldly at me. "Malacoda is doing this with my blessing. Senator Schumer is destined to end up in the ditch below if he does not change his ways." Alice watched Malacoda intently as he continued slapping the now bruised and bleeding Senator Schumer before the crowd of horrified Senators. "Maybe he is getting a little out of hand." Alice walked up to Malacoda and, cooing and cajoling like a wife trying to placate an angry husband, took him by the claw and led him backwards.

At this moment, a shade jumped down onto the walkway from a tree and ran by the obviously startled Malacoda. Malacoda's eyes rolled upwards and he immediately bent over and did his "trumpet" thing with his ass. I heard the boomerang sound of Alice's bowie knife being thrown and then her cards being fired in a continuous stream. From the rear of our column I heard Hatter's cane laser. In the shadow underneath the canopy of trees in an already dimly lit Hell, I noticed a faint darkening of shadow above me. I grabbed for my jacks weapon, but had no time. I glimpsed the blinding white swirling light of one of Malacoda's portals out of the corner of my eye and saw him catch Alice by the waist and fling her head first and panties exposed through the portal. One of Malacoda's demons caught me next and flung me with what seemed panicked haste as well. Just before I entered the portal I witnessed the chaos. From the trees encasing the walkway in a canopy, I saw dozens of gigantic spiders with mosquito-like hoses for mouths jumping down into the midst of the Senators. Malacoda's demons snatched the obviously intended prey. I disappeared into the swirling, blinding white of Malacoda's hastily opened portal and landed with a thump on a walkway. In front of me I saw a pile of perhaps a dozen Senators with Norm Coleman at the top. The product of his fright trickled down.

End of Chapter 20

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 2 - Timeline error corrected

Chapter 21: Chapter 21  
Chapter 21: "The Adulterators and Counterfeiters"

"Giving your Democratic colleagues a lesson in Republican Party economic policy, Norm?" Malacoda was not smiling. The target of Malacoda's glare flushed as he climbed down the dripping tower of human bodies. The narrow escape from the monstrous spiders left no one in the mood to hassle Norm over his accident. A thick rain of hot ash from the "sky" quickly dried the wet spots on clothing. This time the ash carried enough heat to provoke everyone to quickly brush away the flakes from scalps and bare skin. The odor of burning pine joined the acrid smoke smell for the first time. Behind me I heard coughing.

Alice pushed and shoved everyone into a makeshift line for her head-counting routine, and was obviously relieved when everyone was accounted for. This time we had come quite close to losing members of our party. The look on Malacoda's face said it all.

"I was about to mention a famous name that you would all recognize as an inhabitant of the Ditch of Jailers, but, at this point, I think everyone has lost their curiosity. This is the Ditch of Adulterators and Counterfeiters. Here you will find mostly souls who adulterated food and counterfeited drugs for profit. I don't think that I need to expound upon the sheer evil of this practice, for recent events have filled the newspapers of your country with examples of this sin. We have down in this Ditch some Chinese bosses who tampered with the production of pet food, milk, and baby formula for the purpose of reducing cost. In all cases, melamine, often used to produce hard plastic plates, cups, and kitchenware, had been added to boost apparent protein content and fool quality control tests. In the cases of both pets and babies, the result was kidney stones, kidney damage, and kidney failure. In the case of milk, the melamine was added to restore the apparent protein content after adding water. The scope of the scandal was so wide in China that the World Health Organization described the food adulteration as a 'large-scale intentional activity to deceive consumers for simple, basic, short-term profits.' Once again, the profit motive becomes the excuse for the inexcusable." Malacoda looked over his audience as he paused.

"The China Health Ministry did a nationwide investigation of milk powder contamination and concluded that six babies probably died from the contamination. The number of infants who suffered kidney problems from the contamination was around 300,000."

I looked around at our Senators and wondered if any of our champions of deregulation and free trade were making the connection between the profit motive, competition, the drive to cut costs, and food adulteration. I didn't see any blank faces. All around were worried glances back and forth. Perhaps they were worried about their own souls. Malacoda was proving to be more effective than any fire-and-brimstone preacher.

"Judging from your newspapers, one could easily think that food adulteration was a new scandal. Tampering with food and drink for the sake of short-term profit has existed as long as the marketplace. Take, for example, what was routinely happening in Great Britain before the Sale of Foods and Drugs Act of 1875. Before that time, the adulterations which I am about to mention were common. Gravel, leaves, and twigs were added to pepper as filler. Black lead was used to glaze used tea leaves and other leaves. Grit, sand, ashes, and mashed potato were added to bread as filler. Alum was used for bleaching flour. Strychnine, cocculus inculus, and copperas were added to rum and beer. Sulphate of copper was added to pickles, jarred fruit, bottled wine, and jars of preserves. Lead chromate was added to mustard. Ferric ferrocynanide, lime sulphate, bisulphate of mercury, and Venetian lead were added to candies and chocolate. Red lead was added to Gloucester cheese as a red food coloring. Flour and arrowroot were added to cream as thickening agents. The London County Medical Officer found the following in samples of ice cream: bacteria, cotton fiber, lice, bed bugs, bug's legs, fleas, straw, human hair, cat hair, and dog hair. The contaminated ice cream was known to cause diphtheria, scarlet fever, diarrhoea, and enteric fever. In 1862, the Privy Council estimated that about 20 percent of meat in England and Wales came from diseased animals. In 1877 the Local Government Board estimated that about 25 percent of the milk contained added water and/or chalk, and about ten percent of butter, eight percent of bread, and 50 percent of gin had copper added as a coloring agent. The Chinese were not the first to play fast and loose with people's health and lives in order to make a little extra profit."

Malacoda paused to let what he had to say sink in. I knew that he would soon mention the ultimate expose of the consequences of profit-seeking in the food industry: Upton Sinclair's still famous "The Jungle." It came next.

"In the United States, people had to wait until 1906 for the Meat Inspection Act and Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. The passage of both acts was in direct response to the public outcry after the publication of Upton Sinclair's expose of the meat-packing industry 'The Jungle.' Upton Sinclair had meant in his novel to stoke public outrage over the working conditions and exploitation of the wage laborers in the meat packing plants, but its effect was to create revulsion at unsanitary conditions in American consumers. Sinclair's bitter comment about the effect of his work was 'I aimed at the public's heart, and by accident I hit it in the stomach.' I will quote to you some passages from the book." One of Malacoda's demons, as if on cue, flew up and handed Malacoda a copy of Sinclair's novel which had several bookmarks inserted. A demon sitting on the walkway railing whispered to me that the book had come from the City of Dis.

"Now Antanas Rudkus was the meekest man that God ever put on earth; and so Jurgis found it a striking confirmation of what the men all said, that his father had been at work only two days before he came home as bitter as any of them, and cursing Durham's with all the power of his soul. For they had set him to cleaning out the traps; and the family sat round and listened in wonder while he told them what that meant. It seemed that he was working in the room where the men prepared the beef for canning, and the beef had lain in vats full of chemicals, and men with great forks speared it out and dumped it into trucks, to be taken to the cooking room. When they had speared out all that they could reach, they emptied the vat on the floor, and then with shovels scraped up the balance and dumped it into the truck. This floor was filthy, yet they set Antanas with his mop slopping the 'pickle' into a hole that connected with a sink, where it was caught and used over again forever; and if that were not enough, there was a trap in the pipe, where all the scraps of meat and odds and ends of refuse were caught, and every few days it was the old man's task to clean these out, and shovel their contents into one of the trucks with the rest of the meat!"

"One day a man slipped and hurt his leg; and that afternoon, when the last of the cattle had been disposed of, and the men were leaving, Jurgis was ordered to remain and do some special work which this injured man had usually done. It was late, almost dark, and the government inspectors had all gone, and there were only a dozen or two of men on the floor. That day they had killed about four thousand cattle, and these cattle had come in freight trains from far states, and some of them had got hurt. There were some with broken legs, and some with gored sides; there were some that had died, from what cause no one could say; and they were all to be disposed of, here in darkness and silence. 'Downers,' the men called them; and the packing house had a special elevator upon which they were raised to the killing beds, where the gang proceeded to handle them, with an air of businesslike nonchalance which said plainer than any words that it was a matter of everyday routine. It took a couple of hours to get them out of the way, and in the end Jurgis saw them go into the chilling rooms with the rest of the meat, being carefully scattered here and there so that they could not be identified."

"There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance, where old Antanas had gotten his death; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of horror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a truck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the acid, one by one. Of the butchers and floors-men, the beef-boners and trimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a person who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the man pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count them or to trace them. They would have no nails, -they had worn them off pulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread out like a fan. There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the midst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply was renewed every hour. There were the beef-luggers, who carried two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator-cars; a fearful kind of work, that began at four o'clock in the morning, and that wore out the most powerful men in a few years. There were those who worked in the chilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time limit that a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five years. There were the wool-pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even sooner than the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be painted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to pull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten their fingers off. There were those who made the tins for the canned meat; and their hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance for blood poisoning. Some worked at the stamping machines, and it was very seldom that one could work long there at the pace that was set, and not give out and forget himself and have a part of his hand chopped off. There were the 'hoisters,' as they were called, whose task it was to press the lever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They ran along upon a rafter, peering down through the damp and the steam; and as old Durham's architects had not built the killing room for the convenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would have to stoop under a beam, say four feet above the one they ran on; which got them into the habit of stooping, so that in a few years they would be walking like chimpanzees. Worst of any, however, were the fertilizer men, and those who served in the cooking rooms. These people could not be shown to the visitor, -for the odor of a fertilizer man would scare any ordinary visitor at a hundred yards, and as for the other men, who worked in tank rooms full of steam, and in some of which there were open vats near the level of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they fell into the vats; and when they were fished out, there was never enough left of them to be worth exhibiting, -sometimes they would be overlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard!"

At this point, Malacoda decided to give everyone a chance to recover from the bit of nausea that his recitations from "The Jungle" were causing. Even Alice was looking a bit green, which was quite a feat with that blackened, demonic face. If I had been standing next to her, no doubt she would have leaned over and whispered to me, "Thank God we're almost all vegetarians in Wonderland!" It had been years since I had eaten meat, myself, although for different reasons. Malacoda started his monologue again.

"Some questioned the veracity of the content of Sinclair's novel, but the public uproar after its publication put pressure on then President Theodore Roosevelt to respond. He sent inspectors to Chicago to investigate the sanitary conditions in the meatpacking plants, and those inspectors reported back that the actual conditions were even worse that what Sinclair had written in his book. Some of the awful conditions described by Sinclair persist to this very day. Downer cows, cows which are too ill to walk into a slaughterhouse on their own, are still being incorporated into the meat supply. Paul Krekorian, a member of the California State Assembly, had this to say about conditions in the Westland/Hallmark slaughterhouse in Chino, California."

"In January 2008, the Humane Society of the United States released undercover videotape of workers at the Westland/Hallmark slaughterhouse in Chino attempting to drive seriously ill downed cattle into the slaughter line with horrendously inhumane measures. The sick cattle were pushed with forklifts, kicked and electrocuted, and even had pressurized water forced into their nostrils with hoses, by workers who were trying to force them toward the 'kill box' for slaughter. Perhaps even more shocking was the realization that the meat from these cows had been processed and had entered the food supply. Since 2004, 'downer' animals - those who are so sick or injured that they cannot stand and walk on their own - have been banned for human consumption because they present a significantly increased risk of potentially fatal pathogens such as mad cow disease, E. coli, and salmonella. As a result of the Humane Society's investigation, 143 million pounds of beef that had been processed at the Chino plant was recalled - the largest meat recall in U.S. history. Nearly a third of the beef to be recalled had been sold to the nation's schools for children's lunch programs, and much of it had already been eaten. Nonetheless, although individual workers were charged with abuse, the company faced no criminal charges for selling the tainted beef, despite the horrendous threat to public safety and the extraordinary monetary loss resulting from the recall. Clearly, current California law is woefully inadequate to prevent the kind of abuses that went on in the Westland/Hallmark plant and to protect the public from the risks related to beef derived from seriously ill animals. I have introduced Assembly Bill 2098 in response to this scandal..."

Malacoda stopped here to look around again. Worried-looking faces all around. "The closest thing I know of to a modern-day 'The Jungle' is Eric Schlosser's 'Fast Food Nation.' I suggest all of you senators read it as a part of your job." Malacoda then gave the senators another dose of his "I mean business" glare. Most of them looked away. "An evil closely related to food adulteration is drug counterfeiting. A counterfeit drug can be one of four types: it may contain no active ingredients, it may contain insufficient active ingredients, it may contain the wrong active ingredients, or, worst of all, it may contain hazardous or poisonous ingredients. Counterfeiting drugs is very nearly the perfect crime because there is so little evidence available. The drug is consumed and the packaging is normally tossed into the trash. When the patient fails to improve, both the patient and the physician assume that the patient's disease is the problem. Cheating sick people with fake drugs is one of the worst sins in Hell. The punishment is most severe."

Malacoda motioned with his eyes over the edges of the walkway. Down below in the ditch I could see shades mostly standing up and appearing to move very little. Malacoda explained why the shades were so reluctant to move. "In this Ditch, the shades have their bodies slowly twisted inside-out and then outside-in in a cycle that repeats indefinitely. The pain is excruciating and movement increases the agony. Some of the shades in this Ditch have not moved an inch in a century. Come down with me. Let us see Hell's wrath for these damned souls close-up." In a split fraction of a second, we heard and saw one of Malacoda's portals open. By this time we all knew well to close our eyes before entering. Even Alice and Hatter closed their eyes before entering. I went last with Hatter protectively holding my arm.

We exited standing in the midst of the shades and passing through them as we walked. The naked shade bodies in their varying states of disconfiguration were nauseating to behold. A shade standing motionless in front of me began the cycle with his hair turning inward and his scalp twisting up looking like a bloody doormat. His ears twisted inward and out came the ear canal with the three smallest bones in the human body exposed. His eyes turned into an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare, twisted backwards with the optic nerve dangling. His mouth became a hose as the esophagus twisted out. His internal organs - the stomach, the liver, the kidneys, the lungs, the heart, etc. - all became exposed. His heart pumped like a water-filled balloon being squeezed in motion so rapid the eye could not follow. His intestines dropped out his anal opening. Typical male genitalia disappeared and were replaced by a tunnel oozing out all sorts of vile secretions in the varying shades of gray that composed all shade bodies. Muscles twisted out exposing the bone underneath. No illustration from an anatomy textbook could match these shades for sheer grotesquerie. In front of me I heard two senators retch, and behind me I heard a third. Malacoda walked up to one shade and identified him for us.

"Behold here the tortured soul of the American Robert Ray Courtney who spent nearly a decade enriching himself by selling diluted drugs. His crimes affected around 98,000 prescriptions and affected around 4,200 patients. At a minimum, 17 cancer patients died after receiving watered-down formulations of chemotherapy drugs from him. He was arrested in 2001, found guilty in 2002, and was sentenced to 30 years in prison. He was also ordered to pay 2.2 billion dollars to victims in a civil lawsuit." Malacoda walked up to Courtney and kicked him off to the side while his insides were turning back inwards. I remember being surprised as Malacoda's foot did not pass through the shade body. Malacoda picked up on this. "We demons can touch the shades as surely as you living can touch each other. Not that we enjoy touching the shades. They have an extraordinarily slimy feel - like seaweed." Malacoda then kicked a few other shades out of the way and opened a portal. "All aboard for the Tenth Ditch, home of the bearers of false witness."

Hatter switched off his recorder.

End of Chapter 21

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante. Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle" has passed into the public domain and may be downloaded for free from gutenberg dot org.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22  
Chapter 22: "The False Witnesses"

We exited onto the walkway of the last of Malebolge's Ditches. Alice did her head-counting thing, and I sniffed the air and looked above. The smoke odor was even stronger, and the ash was now raining down as if a volcano had erupted nearby. Visibility was the worst I'd ever seen in Hell since arriving, and the scent of burning pine was overwhelming. I could only see perhaps six feet in front of me. Like a London fog in the morning, it was. Malacoda walked to the front of our group and welcomed us to the tenth and final Ditch of Malebolge.

"This is the Ditch of False Witnesses. These are the worst of Malebolge's sinners because there is nothing worse, short of murder, than knowingly destroying the reputation and dignity of an innocent. This sin is mentioned with good reason in the Ten Commandments. The punishment is symbolic of the harm this sin inflicts upon its victims. The guilty damned in this Ditch are afflicted with Guinea Worms which infest their bodies from head to toe in a density that creates an illusion of fur. For those of you who know not what Guinea Worms are, I will take a moment to explain. Guinea worms are a dreadful affliction of Africa acquired by drinking contaminated water. The larvae of this worm, once ingested, burrow through the intestine and throughout the body. The worms are thin little things which grow to a length of up to three feet. People are often unaware that they are infected as long as the worms remain inside the body. It is when the worms exit the body, around a year after entry, that the agony begins. The worms travel to the skin and create a blister-like sore. When the Guinea Worm exits, the blister ruptures. As the worms exit the body, the victim experiences intense itching and burning. Swelling, fever, and weakness are normal. The worms can take quite a long time to exit. There is no cure. Needless to say, the Guinea Worms from Hell are an especially nasty variety. Our damned souls are dropped into this Ditch healthy, but afflicted with an intense thirst. Sooner or later they always give in and drink the infested water which runs alongside the walls of the Ditch. The infection is nearly immediate, unlike in the world of the living. One drink, and the damned soul appears to sprout fur. The worms number in the tens of thousands, and the burning and itching is nearly as painful as being boiled in the Sixth Circle. False witnesses create an agony that eats its victims from the inside, so we create an agony which eats these sinners from the inside. Have no pity for the damned you are about to see." Malacoda then opened a portal to the Ditch below.

We exited from the portal to find ourselves in the midst of shades so afflicted with Guinea Worms that I thought they looked like werewolves. They were mostly motionless. Malacoda informed us that there was no danger in this Ditch as the Guinea Worms and the contaminated water from which they came were all shade substances. We could walk through the water at the sides of the Ditch the same as we passed through the shades themselves. Malacoda walked to the front of our group to give his usual lecture. This time, however, instead of naming occupants of the Ditch, he focussed on the sins themselves. Most of us, of course, were too far back to be able to see him. The smoke was as dense in the bottom of the Ditch as it was on the walkway.

"Probably the earliest instance of false witness with which you Americans will be familiar is the witch hunts of Salem, Massachusetts early in your history. Accusations of what was then a serious crime were a handy means of retaliation against people who were guilty of nothing more than being disliked. The same thing happened when Senator Joseph McCarthy began a campaign of suspicion against anyone whose politics he disliked. Among those affected by his calumny were college professors, librarians, entertainers, screenplay writers, journalists, priests, and even actors. The actress Lucille Ball nearly became one of his victims, and the screenplay writer Dalton Trumbo was both blacklisted and jailed for eleven months for contempt of Congress. Joseph McCarthy is in this Ditch."

Malacoda paused for a moment. "Switching to the modern era, the next big witch hunt in your country was the daycare child sex abuse panics. In Bakersfield, California, two couples, Alvin and Debbie McCuan and Scott and Brenda Kniffen were convicted in 1983 and each of them was given a jail sentence of over one thousand years. The convictions of both couples were overturned on appeal and the two couples were released from prison in 1996. They had spent 14 years in prison on the basis of false accusations. Imagine if this were you. Imagine the horror of thinking you would spend the rest of your life in an American prison without ever having committed a crime. Investigators subjected all of the children to repeated and suggestive interrogation. All of the children admitted at one point or another to having been manipulated by investigators into making the allegations. The two Kniffen sons were questioned separately and each was falsely told that the other had spoken of abuse by both the parents and the alleged sex ring. The two boys were told they could go home if they testified that the alleged abuse had occurred. This Ditch awaits those investigators and the people who railroaded the two innocent couples into jail. The American justice system is supposed to place the burden of proof on the accusers, but in this case, it is obvious that the burden of proof was placed on the accused."

"Another horror story involving a false accusation of child molesting was what happened to Margie Grafton, Tim Palomo, Grant Self, and John Stoll. These four residents of Kern County in California were accused of creating a "sex ring" to molest small boys in 1984. The origin of the charges was John Stoll's mentally unstable ex-wife. She and a priest that she was dating filed a complaint that John Stoll had abused their son. A additional charge was filed against Grant Self who was a homeless man renting Stoll's pool house. It didn't help that Self, unknown to John Stoll, was a convicted child molester who had finished a sentence. Margie Grafton and boyfriend Tim Palomo were charged simply for being frequent visitors to the pool - a classic case of guilt by association. The allegedly abused children were subjected to leading, aggressive questioning by a police officer who had never been trained in interview methods for gathering evidence. There was no physical evidence to support any of the charges. Defense attorneys requested that the children be medically examined because the anal rape of a small child would leave obvious wounds behind. The court denied the defense attorney's request for medical examinations. During the trial, John Stoll ran out of money with which to pay his lawyer who repeatedly asked to be released from the case. The court denied that request. All four were convicted and received long sentences. Margie Grafton and boyfriend Tim Palomo had their convictions voided on appeal after eight years in jail. John Stoll and Grant Self were released in 2004 after twenty years in prison. Grant Self was transferred to a state hospital for the mentally ill where authorities declared that he would remain until they decided that Self was no longer a danger to others. Following the trial, two of the interrogated children declared in public statements that they had lied during the preliminary hearing and had simply told investigators what they wanted to hear."

"On October 22, 2004, NBC's "Dateline" used an entire episode to address the Bakersfield child sex molestation convictions. The program's reporters stated that 39 people were convicted, and of those 39, ten received probation and 29 were sent to prison. Of the 29 who were imprisoned, 23 had their convictions voided on appeal and were released."

Our column began to move, so I guessed that Malacoda up ahead had started to walk. Shade figures appeared and vanished into the smoke like ghosts in a fog-shrouded London cemetery in the middle of the night. Then I heard Malacoda's voice again from the smoke ahead.

"Those weren't the only cases of their type. In Maplewood, New Jersey in 1985, Margaret Kelly Michaels was arrested on 163 counts of molesting 34 children. The children testified that they were sodomized daily by their teacher for seven months, forced to drink blood and urine, eat a cake made out of bowel movements, dance naked, and lick peanut butter and jelly off each others' bodies. An FBI lab exam found no evidence of bodily secretions anywhere in the work area. Michaels passed a polygraph test. The prosecutor had very little physical evidence and relied on the testimony of the children for his case. Michaels was convicted on 115 counts and sentenced to 47 years in prison. In 1993, the New Jersey Court of Appeals overturned Margaret Kelly Michaels' conviction. The court's finding was that the children had been coached and manipulated by investigators into making the accusations. The teacher had spent eight years in prison. As you might have guessed, we have lots of manipulative investigators in this Ditch. The manipulated children, however, we spare. They are not punished. Here in Hell, we see them as victims as well. Many of the manipulated children are haunted by feelings of guilt."

We moved further ahead. Shades and the senators appeared and disappeared in the smoke. "You might be wondering why these things happen," said Malacoda. "It's very simple, really. Witch hunts are a very effective means of manipulating people and diverting their attention from the crimes of the wealthy and powerful. Further, witch hunts often allow the wealthy and powerful to assume the role of protectors. Child care centers aren't the only places plagued with false accusations, and the United States isn't the only country where this witch-hunt atmosphere exists. Consider, for example, the experience of British teacher Judy Sunderland who had three years of her life and her occupation stolen from her by a boy who made a false accusation of assault against her. Ironically, the boy who accused the teacher of assault had kicked the teacher on her legs which ended up covered with bruises."

"Judy Sunderland's ordeal began when she accepted a sixth-form teaching post at Immanual Church of England Community College in September of 2003. For any of you Americans who might be unaware of the nuances of British English, a college in Britain is a private secondary school. Mrs. Sunderland's school was plagued with discipline problems and fights. It was common in the corridors for boys to pull hoods over their heads and run when stopped by a teacher. On December 4, 2003, Mrs. Sunderland worked her last day as a teacher when she heard a fight out in a corridor and stepped out to intervene."

"In the corridor, Mrs. Sunderland saw a boy of 13 or 14 attempting to evade a support assistant. She stepped in front of the boy and put her hand on the wall to block his escape with her arm. The boy slid down the wall until he was sitting and, when told to follow the support assistant's instructions or follow her to the office, stood up and kicked Mrs. Sunderland hard on the left shin and unleashed a torrent of profanity on her. The boy tried to run, and Mrs. Sunderland grabbed the boy from behind, holding him in place with a bear hug, which, however, was not tight enough to prevent the boy from wriggling free and kicking Mrs. Sunderland in the legs a second time. After that, apparently the boy gave up trying to escape and sat down in a chair while Mrs. Sunderland sent for assistance from a senior staff member. The boy was sent home and Mrs. Sunderland had to write a report for the school. At that point, she made a major error. She did not report the boy's assault on her to the police - a decision which has haunted her ever since."

"The incident took place on a Friday. Upon arriving for work on Monday morning, Mrs. Sunderland was called to the head teacher's office where she found a teacher's union representative waiting for her. She was informed that the boy had made an accusation of criminal misconduct on her part to the police. Mrs. Sunderland went into shock and, being unable to work, signed off sick. It wasn't until a month later, in January of 2004, that Mrs. Sunderland found out what that accusation was."

"After that one-month wait, Mrs. Sunderland was taken to the police station and subjected to a five-hour-long interrogation. It was only that day that Mrs. Sunderland discovered that the boy had accused her of assault. The boy had claimed that Mrs. Sunderland had grabbed him by the throat, whacked him against a wall, scratched his wrist, put her knee into his back, and a few other things as well. The accusation was so extreme that one wonders why the police gave it any credibility at all."

"Mrs. Sunderland had never believed that she would be charged, but when the accusation involves a child, things are different. In March of 2004, Mrs. Sunderland was called to the local police station, arrested, fingerprinted, sampled for DNA, and saw her name, picture, and address appear in the local newspaper. Think about that. Her address was in the newspaper. It was as if the local population were being invited to tar and feather her. Mrs. Sunderland came close to a complete nervous breakdown from the stress. The boy who made the accusation was allowed to remain completely anonymous."

"After 18 months, the case came to trial. It took the judge ten minutes to decide to throw out the case. The boy who had made the accusation was unwilling to testify and police laboratory evidence had proved that Mrs. Sunderland could not possibly have been responsible for some of the bruises on the boy."

"The judge in the case was highly critical of the prosecutors for a long list of delays and mistakes, and said that Mrs. Sunderland should leave the court without any mark on her character. You would think that that would have been the end of the matter, but it wasn't. The administrators at Immanual Church of England Community College informed Mrs. Sunderland that she would not be allowed to return to work until they had completed their own investigation of the incident. The investigation should have been completed in 30 days. It took 11 months. As Mrs. Sunderland was still suspended from the school, she could not look for work in another school district."

"In May of 2006, a school panel ruled against Mrs. Sunderland and placed a physical assault against a student into her personnel file. Yet the school invited her to come back to teach. Mrs. Sunderland did not want to teach with an assault in her personnel file and appealed. Seven months later the appeal board decided against her. The school still expected Mrs. Sunderland to return to work. With no further means to challenge the assault in her teaching record, Mrs. Sunderland resigned and walked away from teaching."

"Mrs. Sunderland soon after applied to the Education Board - the same Board that had ruled that she should return to her school to teach - for a professional chaperone license to transport the three of her grandchildren who were child actors to acting jobs. Mrs. Sunderland was turned down because of the physical assault in her teaching record. No appeal was possible. She was considered fit to teach other people's children at Immanual Church of England Community College, but not fit to transport her own grandchildren. Kafka couldn't dream up bullshit like this! If you're wondering about the boy who made the accusation, whether he ends up in this Ditch depends on his conduct as an adult. If he does everything he possibly can to make right the wrong, he can avoid damnation."

"In the United States, 98-pound Joanna Chapel absurdly found herself falsely accused of physical assault when she stepped between two varsity football players who were fighting. One boy shoved Joanna to the ground to get her out of the way. Joanna got up and shoved that boy backward trying to put space between the two boys. When the other boy advanced to where Joanna was standing, she shoved him backwards as well to keep the two boys apart. Students who had been watching the fight and cheering the boys on began chanting that a teacher had hit a student. One of the two boys in that fight told his father that Joanna had thrown him against a locker and punched him in the face. Did I mention that Joanna was 98 pounds and the two boys were varsity football players? After that, as I'm sure you know, the lawyers got involved."

"Three days later the other boy in the fight got into another fight. Teachers who witnessed the fight stood by and refused to intervene. They were afraid of criminal charges. A bit more than three months later, the district attorney dropped all charges against Joanna Chapel and records of the incident were removed from her personnel file. That same year the Colorado state legislature passed a bill protecting teachers who used reasonable force in the course of their duties, which include keeping order in classrooms and breaking up fights. The boy who accused Joanna Chapel will probably end up in this Ditch. It all depends on his later conduct as an adult. He has a wrong to right."

"Joanna Chapel's lawyer in the case later participated in the writing of a book about false accusations of criminal misconduct against teachers. The title is 'Guilty Until Proven Innocent: Teachers and Accusations of Abuse.' It is something all of you senators should read. By the time you get through, you will be wondering why anyone would take the extraordinary legal risk of teaching in your country."

"The previous stories are by no means the worst. Sometimes false accusations end in tragedies even worse than years of wrongful imprisonment. Virginia teacher Ron Mayfield Jr. committed suicide by falling off a bridge two weeks after a student falsely accused him of assault. Mayfield had had a spotless teaching record up to that point, and the stress that resulted from his fear of ending up on television and in the newspapers plus his fear of being taken away in handcuffs by police overwhelmed him. Ironically, Mayfield did not know that the day before he dropped himself into the river, the police had informed the school that they had found no evidence to support the boy's allegation. No one at the school passed that information on to Mayfield. Mayfield had been cleared before he committed suicide. Without a public admission of wrongdoing, and an expression of genuine remorse, the accusing boy is doomed. As always, his fate depends on his conduct as an adult."

"Another incident of a falsely accused teacher committing suicide occurred in France. In September of 2008, a 15-year-old boy accused Teacher Jean-Luc Bubert of hitting him. The police took Bubert in for questioning after the parents of the boy made an official complaint. After several hours of questioning, police released Bubert because they felt that there wasn't enough evidence to hold him. Bubert went home and hanged himself. In October of 2008, the boy admitted that he had made the whole story up. His teacher had never touched him. The French police said that the boy would be prosecuted for making a false accusation. Because the boy publicly admitted the lie, he still has a chance to escape this Ditch. He must do all that he can to right the wrong that he committed."

"And now for one of the worst stories. Imagine being innocent of any wrongdoing and somehow ending up in the U.S. Prison at Guantanamo Bay for six years. Fifteen Uighur men left China during a period of increasing political oppression and made their way to Afghanistan where they lived in small Uighur communities. When the war in Afghanistan started in 2001, they fled into Pakistan thinking that they would be safer there. The Pakistani villagers welcomed them and then turned them over to the United States to collect the bounties that the U.S. was offering. The Washington Post reported in 2005 that these men had been determined to be 'no longer enemy combatants,' yet they remain imprisoned because the U.S. government cannot find any country to offer them asylum and is unwilling to offer asylum itself. The men cannot be sent back to their native China because they would face persecution and imprisonment, if not death. You would think that the United States government would feel a sense of obligation to these men after six years of mistaken imprisonment. You can guess for yourselves who the candidates for this Ditch are in this case." I heard Malacoda spit on the ground - if you can call it that - up ahead. We were still walking and the raining ash seemed to be getting thicker with every step. The air was so full of grit it seemed like trying to breathe in a sandstorm. In the distance ahead, I heard what sounded like a freight train.

"One of the most common forms of false accusation is a false rape allegation. A 1985 study by Charles P. McDowell of the U.S. Air Force Office of Special Investigations found that of a sample group of 556 rape allegations, 27 percent of accusers recanted when faced with a polygraph test which can be ordered in the military. An independent evaluation found a false accusation rate of 60 percent. An investigation of rape reports in seven Virginia and Maryland counties in 1990 and 1991 conducted by the Washington Post found that nearly 25 percent of rape accusations were false. In 1996, the Department of Justice reported that of around 10,000 sexual assault cases with DNA evidence available, the DNA evidence excluded the primary suspect in about 2,000 cases, and in another 2,000 cases, the DNA evidence was insufficient for a determination of guilt. According to Forensic Science Digest in an article published in December of 1985, the most common reasons given by women for a false accusation of rape were spite, revenge, and feelings of shame."

"The worst effect of false accusations of any kind is the effect they have on people who have been victimized. With so many false accusations occurring, the genuinely victimized are often reluctant to report crimes for fear that no one will believe them. How many robberies go unreported because the victims fear that involvement with the legal system will cost them more than the robbery? How many physical assaults and rapes go unreported because the victim thinks that no one will believe him or her? A sense of jadedness pervades the attitudes of the police officers who are on the front lines. An ex police officer who blogs under the name of "Angry Harry" stated in a long entry that he believed that over a ten-year career, he had only one rape case that was real. This was what he had to say about that case:"

'I will never forget her face, what she had gone through after the rape to secure help from police. It occurred in the very rural area she lived in - her youth, lack of education, and naivete had plunged her into a jurisdictional nightmare of trying to find the agency responsible for that area. How tiny she looked next to me, how she clung to the wad of crumpled up clothes that she was wearing when she was attacked. How quickly she handed them to me when I offered to take them. How determined she was to negotiate, without complaint, whatever obstacles stood in the way of her constitutional right to Petition the Government for Redress of Grievances. How great that grievance was. This dirt poor redneck girl didn't know anything about jurisdiction, and I guarantee you she couldn't have spelled it. But she was smart enough to know that what had happened to her was terrible, was wrong - was against the law - and she expected, with the innocence of a child, that the law would stand up for her. I assure you, she had no one else in her life that would. Ultimately that belief brought her face to face with me. I don't know what ultimately happened to her case. But if you were looking for it, it likely wound up about two-thirds of the way down a big stack of cases just like the one at the high school.'

"The case at the high school that the police officer refers to was one of what he believed to be many false accusations. A girl who has been raped should not have to wait while police waste time and effort sorting out the rubbish of false accusations. This applies to all other possible crimes, as well. This avalanche of lies which pervades societies creates an atmosphere of profound distrust. Fold this into a society of grotesque inequality, and you have the makings of what can only be described as a witch's brew. Is it any wonder that apathy and cynicism are so pervasive in your country? Is it any wonder that apathy and cynicism are the normal state of affairs in most of the world? Does it help that you have a president who is guilty of the biggest false witness of modern times? You will not find here, however, those who start wars based on lies. Such a crime demands punishment worse than this Ditch."

I found myself face-to-face with Malacoda, along with Alice, Hatter, and all the senators. Most of us eerily shared space with shades. We had come to a stone wall which thrust upwards out of sight. Malacoda said it went up about fifty feet. Behind it was the source of the freight train sound that I heard. It was the central ventilation shaft of Hell, and went all the way upwards. The roar was from the burning fires of the seventh circle. Ash from the burning forests in the seventh circle spewed upwards through the ventilation shaft and spilled outwards into the sixth, fifth, and fourth circles over the protective walls that did not reach the ceilings of each circle. Malacoda assured us that in the fifth and sixth circles, we would be traveling once again along the outer edges of the circles farther away from the central shaft. The ash would not be so thick along the outer edges. I ran my fingers down over my right arm, and saw a thin film of what looked like soot smear. My dress looked dirty. Alice coughed.

End of Chapter 22

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23  
Chapter 23: "The Cavern of Crystals"

"Our tour of the Ditches of Malebolge has now concluded. I hope you have enjoyed the sights and please visit our gift shop where many interesting souvenirs are available." Malacoda was grinning from ear to ear. Ha! Ha! What a kidder. The senators that I could see were looking at each other with a characteristic "Is he nuts?" look on their faces. Malacoda now fixed his smitten gaze on Alice and informed her that the exit was just up ahead and down a hole in the walkway. "I will take you all the way to the Mirror of Souls. Once you have stepped through that mirror, you are on your own again."

The hole in the walkway was a downward-spiraling staircase that would have been pitch black had Malacoda not held aloft a glowing crystal which he had picked up from a pile just outside the hole. It only took a few minutes, and then we found ourselves in a gigantic flat area with wide stone support pillars everywhere which were spaced very regularly at a distance of about seven feet apart. Every single one of the support pillars was covered with small, glowing crystals that looked like gemstones of every possible hue. "The crystals that you see on the support pillars in this cavern-like area each contain a damned soul who was guilty of torturing other human beings or supporting the torture of human beings in some material way. We also have a few sadists in the form of animal torturers here. In front of Minos, torturing a cat, dog, farm animal, or wild creature is just as much a sin as torturing a human being. The people here are the worst of the worst. They spent their entire lives practicing or supporting this vile degradation of any living creature. Their punishment, like most of the punishments in Hell, is poetic: they spend eternity seeing, hearing, and feeling the tortures that they inflicted or supported through the eyes, ears, and senses of the victims. They see what they did. They hear their own voices. They feel the tortures they inflicted or helped to inflict. In essence, these damned souls become their victims."

I heard swishes in the dark area lit only by the crystals that reminded me of Minos' tails in that cavern where we had encountered him. Malacoda held up a hand and announced "Behold new damned souls from Minos!" Now we could see the tails. Nearly transparent shades were flung before us which in a matter of seconds had wild, swirling colors envelop them. The swirling colors encased each damned soul and then, rotating ever faster, became increasingly smaller until the swirls were the size of the crystals we saw on the support pillars. The miniaturized swirls of colors then smacked against the sides of the support pillars and transformed into new crystals joining the already existing populations of crystals. The swirling colors made no breeze and could not be felt in any way. Everywhere I looked, I saw crystals completely covering every support pillar and often spreading around the top and base of the pillar as well.

"This place should be of special interest to many of your guests, Alice. It seems we have many here who think that torture can be justified in certain circumstances. I have made arrangements with Minos for a small demonstration of the eternity that awaits those who support the practice of this atrocity. Minos! You may begin!"

Minos' tails now snaked through the spaces in between the senators and began snatching them one-by-one. Some of the senators began to cry, and, I might add, not all of those who wept with fear were women. After about one minute of suspenseful snaking through our ranks, Minos had seized in his tails every senator in whom he was interested. Now the real demonstration began. The same process that we had seen with new damned souls now occurred with the senators enveloped in Minos' tails. Swirling colors enveloped each in a miniature tornado. At the precise instant that the shrinking swirls of colors became crystals embedded on the ceiling and pillars, we heard yelps of bone-chilling terror. In all, Minos' tails had snatched about half of the senators. I need hardly mention which party to which most of those grabbed belonged. There was one Democrat who had been grabbed; there would have been two if Lieberman had still been with us. Minos let about fifteen seconds pass before he released all of the snatched senators from their crystalline prisons. Each released senator reacted in exactly the same manner: he, or in some cases she, collapsed to the floor on knees shaking like a fish on a riverbank. Eyes wide with terror, none of them could speak. One-by-one they collapsed sideways on the floor and slept from exhaustion. I later discovered that Alice had agreed to this demonstration when she spoke to Malacoda in the Ditch of Usurers. That explained why the temper tantrum from Alice that I was expecting never materialized. Our party spent perhaps six hours waiting while the senators slept. I made several trips back to Wonderland and passed out bottles of water, bars of chocolate, and baskets of fruit and goat cheese. All this time, Malacoda stayed with us. As you might expect, no one was in the mood for chit-chat. Only Alice and Malacoda talked. It seemed they had a lot to share and more than a little in common. They both had the soul of a Robin Hood.

When finally all of our sleeping beauties woke up, Malacoda announced that the exit to this area lay just ahead in the form of what he called the "Mirror of Souls." When a living soul stood before this mirror, it would reveal that soul's inner essence. Stepping through the mirror would take the soul to the staircase that ringed the outer circumference of every circle. We would travel down the staircase in the usual manner and step out into the Fifth Circle. Malacoda had a final warning about the mirror. "You must wait until the reflection shows before you can step through the mirror. Only one person can pass through at a time. If you do things out of order, you will walk into a solid sheet of thick glass with the expected result." Malacoda turned to leave, but Alice stopped him. Standing on tiptoe, Alice put a hand behind Malacoda's neck and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. I heard her whisper something to him, but I was too far away to hear it. Malacoda gave Alice a big smile, bowed slightly, and then disappeared into one of his portals. Whatever else one can say about Alice, she certainly isn't superficial or shallow. Ick! Maybe I am. Later I would discover just why Alice was not put off at the idea of kissing what appeared to be a demon. There was more to Malacoda than I would have ever dreamed.

Alice walked up to the mirror and paused in front of it. I know from later conversation with her that she was expecting to see something like Robin Hood staring back. A surprise awaited her. At first, she mistook the reflection for the White Knight of Pale Realm. Then, however, the knight in the mirror turned and charged with his lance...at a windmill.

End of Chapter 23

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 24: Chapter 24  
Chapter 24: "Mirror Image"

Alice stepped through. At this point, there was hesitation on the part of the senators. Who would be the first to stand before the mirror? After a few moments, Bernie Sanders stepped forth joking that his reflection would "probably be the White Rabbit." He wasn't even close. Senator Sanders stepped before the mirror and his jaw dropped as he was reflected back as a woman in the elegant dress of an ancient fable. He stood stock still in front of the mirror, and it was nearly a minute before anyone spoke. "It's Cassandra of Greek mythology who was cursed to be able to foresee the future and yet have no one ever believe her," said Hatter. Senator Sanders stepped through, and Senator John Kerry stepped forward, probably expecting to see something complimentary. He saw a doormat. Wordless, he stepped through. Olympia Snowe, a rare Republican moderate from Maine, stepped up next and saw what was perhaps the rarest of all reflections in the mirror. She saw herself, exactly as she stood before it.

Now other Republican senators stepped forward, and most of them saw obese pigs in topcoats with top-hats. Shoulders slumping like scolded schoolchildren, they stepped through. Democrats got their comeuppances, too. More than a few saw a yellow dog in the mirror. Republican Senator Ted Stevens of Alaska saw himself choking to death with his mouth stuffed full of money. Democratic Senator Max Baucus saw a giant asshole siphoning in hundred-dollar bills from the health insurance industry and drug companies. Senator Chuck Schumer of New York was shown jumping up and down on the lid of a jail overstuffed with pot-smoking inmates. The lid popped off and the pot smokers stuffed their joints into his mouth and ears. When they ran out of space for the joints, they pulled his pants and drawers down and proceeded to stuff his backside full. The mirror showed Senator Schumer's eyeballs rolling around like steel spheres in a pinball machine.

Republican Senator John Sununu stepped forward and saw Elmer Fudd in two-dimensional glory. His expression remained unchanged as he stepped through. He had probably expected worse. Now the senators began pushing the reluctant Norm Coleman forward. He really didn't want to step in front of that mirror. With good reason: Norm Coleman was reflected back as a little boy pissing in his pants and staring with obvious fascination at the steadily-increasing size of the puddle in front of him. From that day onward he was known by the nickname of "Senator Puddle." One of the women senators, whom I shall not name, stepped before the mirror and saw a cow. I rather doubt that the reflection had anything to do with her weight. Democratic Senator Jim Webb of Virginia confidently strode up to the mirror and chuckled at what he saw. He was reflected back as another two-dimensional cartoon character: Yosemite Sam. Perhaps it was the feisty nature of the cartoon character which amused him. Senator Jim Webb certainly did have a bit of spit and fire in him. Senator Sherrod Brown stepped forward and saw a naked man trying to roll a boulder up a hill. "Sisyphus," said Hatter. "Perhaps a comment on the futility of trying to represent the interests of working people in a country beholden to the interests of the moneyed classes." Hatter knew the background of every currently serving Senator.

The last Senator to approach the mirror was Ted Kennedy. The other senators made no effort to rush him forwards as there was some suspicion that he was ill and didn't have much longer. Senator Kennedy stepped before the mirror holding his breath, a memory of the ancient past haunting his face. The mirror filled with fog and slowly the figure of a young woman coalesced. The mirror had been silent in all of the previous "readings," but this time a sound was heard. An ethereal voice, as if it were a thousand miles away, came from the image's lips. "I forgive you, Ted. It is time to forgive yourself." Senator Kennedy's knees buckled under him, and he wept without shame while the young woman's image in the mirror slowly faded into the fog. In a few moments, he stood up, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and stepped through.

End of Chapter 24

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 2

Chapter 25: Chapter 25  
Chapter 25: "The Cultists"

Only Hatter and I were left to go through the mirror. Hatter tipped his hat to me and graciously stepped up to the mirror, thus affording me an opportunity to step in front of the mirror without anyone seeing my reflection. Hatter's reflection was a complete surprise to me. No, no mad scientist references. No inventor references. Hatter stepped in front of the mirror and immediately reflected as a knight in brilliantly polished armour. "A knight in shining armour." Alice would have been most amused if she had seen it. She probably would not have noticed, however, that both she and Hatter had reflected as knights. The two were probably more alike than either dreamed. Hatter stepped through.

Now I was alone. What I saw in front of the mirror I will not mention at this point. I will only say that it was as unexpected as what Hatter saw. I stepped through and joined the rest of our grouping in the stairwell that led to the Fifth Circle, home of the cultists.

Alice was just finishing her head-count as I stepped through. The trip through the stairwell took about an hour down the gently-sloping stairs. The odor of burning pine and the heat of the fifth circle seeped through the tiny openings in the stone far above our heads on the left side of the stairwell as we went down. There were, of course, no openings on the right.

When we stepped through the doorway onto the stone walkway ringing the fifth circle, the heat smacked us in the face and sucked all the breath out of us. It was overwhelming, oppressive, and pressed downward upon our shoulders so that each step felt like pulling oneself up a rope. The ash wasn't as thick as it had been in the inner ditches of Malebolge, just as Malacoda had promised, but the grit in the air was as thick as ever. The air was just as difficult to breathe. We followed Alice on the walkway which had a downward slope so slight that it was barely noticeable. Down in the circle on our left, about fifty feet below us, we witnessed what appeared a vast desert filled mostly with wallowing grossly obese shades. They varied in size, and a few thin ones flitted about with an eternal hotfoot trying to keep their bare feet off the sand. The obese shades were unable to stand up, and, of course, suffered in proportion to the amount of body surface they had permanently exposed to the heated sand on the floor of the level. About twenty minutes passed before we encountered Kronos.

Minos had warned us to keep a respectful distance from Kronos, hinting that he might be foul-tempered and inclined to use his scythe on us. Kronos, however, greeted Alice with a smile and was gracious and polite to the rest of us. His manners seemed quite polished compared to the excitable and straightforward Malacoda.

"Welcome to the fifth circle," said Kronos. "Minos informed me long ago of your impending arrival. It seems that Minos had no doubt that you would complete your journey. If you will all look down into the circle, you will see a desert heated from underneath by the columns of fire that come up through the floor of the sixth circle and spread out against the ceiling of that circle. Needless to say, the ceiling of the sixth circle is the floor of the fifth circle. Underneath all that sand is bare stone that is as hot as the floor of any oven. The heat seeps upward into the sand and torments the shades you see everywhere in this circle. The more manipulative the shade was in his dealings with others, the greater is his punishment in the form of an obesity that keeps a large portion of his body on the superheated sand. If you think you smell bacon frying in this circle, it's not your imagination. These are the cultists. They created religions, or, rather, variants of religions, for their own personal benefit. They used their teachings to manipulate the gullible, usually for the purpose of siphoning their material wealth, but not always. You will find down there Christian Prosperity Doctrine cultists, Mormon polygamy cultists, racial supremacy cultists, Hindu caste system apologists, Muslim Jihadist cultists, Catholic Tradition, Family, and Property cultists, Hare Krishna cultists, and, of course, leaders of the Moonie cult."

Kronos lead us down the walkway toward the circle's exit, making it clear that any excursion among the shades below was absolutely out of the question because we would fry in the sand just the same as them. The topic Kronos seemed most interested in discussing with us was the Christian prosperity cults in the U.S.

"The Prosperity Doctrine is a cult which teaches people that religious belief will result in material prosperity. Financial success is seen as proof of being in God's favor. Of course, the corollary is that the believer will interpret poverty as a sign of God's displeasure. Usually, the real purpose of the Prosperity Doctrine is to ensure the prosperity of the hucksters who dispense it to the gullible. Many prosperity cultists are televangelists. A partial list of still-living prosperity teachers is Juanita Bynum, David Yonggi Cho, Kenneth Copeland, Paul Crouch, Billy Joe Daugherty, Creflo Dollar, Jesse Duplantis, Kong Hee, Benny Hinn, Brian Houston, T.D. Jakes, Marcus Lamb, Eddie L. Long, Chris Mentillo, Mike Murdock, Joyce Meyer, Myles Monroe, Joel Osteen, Peter Popoff, Pat Robertson, Nasir Sadikki, Lester Sumrall, Robert Tilton, and Paula White. Even if they are sincere in their beliefs and are not pursuing it solely for the purpose of self-enrichment, they are still destined for this circle. Just about all religions are explicit in their condemnation of materialism. Christianity preaches that you cannot serve God and Mammon. You'd think these prosperity cultists would get called on this by even those who have never read one page of the Bible."

"Let's consider the empire of Kenneth Copeland as an example of self-enrichment through religion. Copeland has an opulent lakefront home of around 18,000 square feet and a fleet of four private planes all paid for by his ministry. CBS News conducted a two-month investigation into ties between between Copeland's religious ministry and private businesses conducted by him and his relatives. A former employee of Copeland's religious ministry, Michael Hoover, said he witnessed employees of the ministry doing work for profit-oriented businesses owned by Copeland's relatives. Frances Hill, a University of Miami law professor who specializes in tax laws for non-profit organizations commented that there are far too many relatives with profit-oriented businesses contracting with the religious ministry. She believes that these business relationships should be setting off red flags everywhere. The ties between Copeland's religious empire and private, for-profit businesses owned by relatives has been so blatant that Copeland has become the target of an investigation by the Senate Finance Committee. Copeland has company in this investigation: five other prosperity televangelists being investigated by the Senate Finance Committee are Paula White, Joyce Meyer, Eddie Long, Benny Hinn, and Creflo Dollar. It is the tax-exempt status of these empires that is at stake. And now a bit more about Creflo Dollar."

"Creflo Dollar, who calls himself Reverend, is the leader of a church, or cult depending on whom you talk to, named World Changers. A graduate of World Changers' school of ministry named J. R. Hudson began to question the teachings of World Changers as he studied the Bible and noticed the discrepancies adding up. Hudson claims that World Changers takes advantage of the theological ignorance of its members for the purpose of fleecing them. According to Hudson, the only person at World Changers who is prospering is Dollar who owns expensive clothes, an expensive luxury car, and a private jet. Hudson noted that in the parking lot of World Changers are a lot of beat-up cars. He also noted that more than a few arrive for services riding the bus. Hudson also reported extreme pressure on church members to give a full ten percent of their earnings - tithing - to World Changers. Dollar's church tracks members' giving through computerized membership records. Those who fail to meet their ten percent pledge are excluded from the church's ministries and are only permitted to attend services. Hudson said that members are threatened with tragedies inflicted by the devil if they fail to tithe." Kronos' eyes narrowed and it was not hard to imagine him thinking of that joyful-for-him moment in the future when one of Minos' tails dropped dear old Dollar onto the Fifth Circle's blazing hot sands and turned him into Dolly Dimples to maximize the amount of body surface frying. "Let us all now pray The Rich American's Prayer."

Kronos clapped his hands together and tipped his head skyward. With tears rolling down his face as he laughed, he prayed:

"Almighty Dollar, which art in Wall Street,

Hallowed be thy name.

Let the Bull Market come.

Let our wars be won.

On earth and never mind about heaven.

Give me this day my stock gains.

Give my country's enemies death.

Laugh at our opponents' protests.

Ignore the carnage that we do.

For we are certain in the righteousness

Of our cause.

We are sure in everything we do.

We are the greatest nation on earth.

What we do is just business.

Let the chips fall where they may.

Let the cries of our victims go unheard.

Forever and ever and ever and ever.

For poverty is the fault of the poor.

And the mangled and dead from our bombs

Got in our way.

I got mine.

Amen."

Kronos cackled like a mad scientist who had just brought a corpse to life. I couldn't tell if he was furious or laughing.

"Enough of the prosperity cults. Let us consider The Way International which is much more like what most people think of as a cult." We were still walking down the walkway, and many of us were getting out of breath. Unlike Alice, who seemed to walk in a leisurely manner, this Kronos kept up a brisk pace. It was obvious that he had a destination inside his circle in mind. He could have just opened a portal for us, I suppose, but I guessed that he preferred to keep us walking in order to give him time to complete his lecture.

"The Way International uses standard psychological manipulation tactics to control its followers. Some of those tactics are the following:

Convincing followers that tragedies will befall them if they disobey leaders.

Convincing followers that tragedies will befall them if they leave the group.

Requiring followers to use only approved jargon.

Requiring followers to reject all information coming from outside the group.

Requiring followers to abandon activities outside the group.

Verbal abuse, private and/or public, of followers who disobey leaders.

Extreme demands on followers' time so they have little time for personal activities.

The Way International also teaches its followers that anyone outside The Way may be possessed by 'devil spirits' of which there are at least 31 varieties. The Way can be legitimately considered a 'prosperity cult' because it teaches that poverty is the result of improper beliefs. Following The Way promises 'the good life.' One of the requirements of The Way is 'abundant sharing and tithing' which means that the follower must give at least 10 percent of income to The Way even if that requires going without necessities. The Way teaches that payment of this amount insures that the follower will not experience financial problems, health problems, or accidents. If this sounds like a traditional con of the ignorant to you, you are correct."

"People who have investigated The Way are invariably shocked at the degree to which followers' lives are controlled by the leadership, international, national, regional, and local. How extreme is this control? Leaders of The Way tell followers whom they may date, whom they may marry, where to live, when to change jobs, when to divorce, where to live, how to discipline their children, how to spend their time, how to spend their money, and on and on and on. The Way is totalitarian. There is no other way to describe this organization. The only technique that the Way does not use to control its members is physical violence."

"The Way is organized in a manner similar to a tree with an international headquarters, national headquarters, state offices, regional offices, and local congregations. The Way uses a typical cult method to recruit in that members infiltrate Bible fellowships and invite targeted victims to Bible studies. At those Bible studies, members of The Way use the traditional cult recruiting technique called 'love bombing' to convince outsiders to join. They shower apparent love and affection on the target until he joins, or becomes suspicious and flees."

"Another type of cult in the United States is the polygamy cult. One you may have already heard of is Warren Jeffs' Fundamental Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS). Warren Jeffs, once known as 'The Prophet,' preached that men need at least three wives to assure themselves a place in Heaven. Mr. Jeffs himself had twelve wives. Ben Bistline, a longtime resident of the cult community of Hildale, claimed that young men were routinely driven out by the church's elders to reduce competition for young women. There simply weren't enough women to provide the minimum of three wives for all of the adult men."

"According to the lawyer Roger H. Hoole of Salt Lake City, women and young girls below the age of consent were often commanded to marry an older man not of their choosing. This sometimes occurred with less than one day of notice. The girls and women could also be reassigned by the church's elders to other men as rewards, as if they were property."

"Flora Jessup, an escapee from the FLDS, described the system of assigning wives as 'nothing less than sexual slavery.' At the age of 16, Flora refused to follow the teachings of the FLDS and was given a choice of a forced marriage or a mental asylum. She claimed that the police and judges of the community were tools of the FLDS."

"The teachings of the FLDS stressed blind and absolute obedience to husbands starting in early childhood. Girls' access to formal education was reduced in the early teens. Wives did not have access to bank accounts, newspapers, or unmonitored access to televisions. Simply put, girls and women were systematically terrorized about the evils of the outside world to the point that most of them were afraid to even consider fleeing. Ben Bistline, the longtime resident of Hildale whom I mentioned a moment ago, said that the purpose of this cult was to provide men with access to young women who would otherwise be hopelessly unavailable to them."

"One of Warren Jeffs' strongest means of controlling families was the United Effort Plan Trust which owned the homes in which FLDS families live. In 2005, Utah Attorney General asked the state's courts to take control of the trust in order to make it harder for Jeffs to divide and reassign families."

"Elderly women have revealed the existence of resistance networks of safe houses in Las Vegas and Phoenix which have been used to smuggle girls to freedom. A woman in the Utah town of Saint George known as 'Aunt Jennie' is reputed to have helped more than 30 girls from the cult communities to escape a polygamous marriage. For me, this has echoes of the 'Underground Railroad' followed by slaves escaping the South before the Civil War. This is slavery, nothing less."

"The FLDS has been a source of constant embarrassment to the mainstream Mormon Church of Salt Lake City. In 2003, a local police officer in one of the cult communities was found guilty of bigamy and sexual misconduct with a minor. He was jailed for one year. In May of 2006, Jeffs was placed on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List for fleeing Utah on charges of arranging marriages between adult males and girls below the age of consent. He was arrested in Nevada in August of 2006, and was taken to Utah for trial. A guilty verdict seems assured."

As Alice listened to this recitation of horrors, the expression on her face slowly changed. At first, I thought that she might be thinking of repeating the stunt that I am sure she pulled on President George W. Bush. Although Alice never spoke of it or admitted it, I am sure that she was the one who dressed President Bush in a blue dress, white apron, and blond wig, and then tied him up in his bed for Laura to find the next morning. The expression on Alice's face continued to harden, and I realized that she was thinking of killing Jeffs. It was only when Kronos mentioned that Jeffs had been arrested that Alice's expression softened.

Kronos picked up on the changes in Alice's face and spoke to her directly. "My child, Warren Jeffs is already dead. Rhadamanthus snatched the souls of Warren Jeffs and many of his associates long ago. Their souls burn in the Seventh Circle at this very moment. I suspect that the demon occupying Jeffs' body is not having much fun right now. You would be doing the demon a favor to spill him."

Kronos paused for a moment while Alice scribbled into a small notebook, and then started a new topic.

"Down there on the superheated sands we've also got racial supremacists of every stripe. Advocates of Apartheid in South Africa, Nazis, Ku Klux Klan members from the U.S., Nordicists and Germanists from Europe, Christian Identity leaders and supporters, members of the South African Boeremag, skinheads, Jim Crow advocates and apologists, Aryan Nations, and so many others. I should add that not all racial supremacy cults are made up of white people. The Japanese had their advocates of Hakko Ichiu who believed that the Japanese were divinely ordained to rule the world. This belief led to Japanese colonialism in East Asia and its second war with China. Jesse Helms, a U.S. Senator from North Carolina, is in this circle."

"We also have down there on the sands defenders of caste systems that were used to oppress despised groups of people. You would be astounded at the length of the list of countries that have had caste systems at one point in their history or another. I'm sure you're aware of the caste system in India. Other countries that have still existing caste systems are Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal, Algeria, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Chad, Ethiopia, Gambia, Ghana, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Ivory Coast, Liberia, Mali, Mauritania, Niger, Nigeria, Senegal, Sierra Leone, Somalia, the island of Bali in Indonesia, and Yemen. Historically caste systems were even more widespread. Ancient Greece, for example, was divided into free and slave. Medieval Europe had a feudal caste system of nobles, clergy, and serfs. China, Hawaii, Japan, and Korea had caste systems in the past. The two main castes in Japan were samurai and peasants. Only the samurais were permitted to carry weapons. It was the right of any Samurai to kill a peasant who was deemed to be disrespectful. According to UNICEF, caste discrimination still affects about 250 million people in the world. Needless to say, we have only the worst of caste discriminators down in the sands. Those who merely mindlessly accepted the world into which they were born without attempting to make it worse are spared. The fact that someone was born to a high social position does not necessarily make him a villain. Some people born to high social positions spend their entire lives attempting to lessen the divisions among people." Kronos nodded in the direction of Senator Kennedy, who seemed embarrassed to be singled out.

"Finally, down on the sands, we have Jewish and Muslim religious nutjobs, who preach undying hatred of the other. In a bit of cosmic justice, Minos sometimes chains a Jew and a Muslim together before tossing them into this circle or the Sixth Circle. Amazingly, sometimes the two chained together are two Muslims. One is a Sunni and the other is a Shiite. There is a long history of Sunni persecution of Shiites." Ahead became visible a plateau which reminded me of Devil's Tower in Wyoming.

"Virgil and Dante stopped to sleep on top of that tower you see ahead. I suspect that you all need a respite, as well. There are a group of forlorn souls up there - souls whom Minos believes to have been unjustly condemned."

End of Chapter 25

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Version 3

Chapter 26: Chapter 26  
Chapter 26: "The Plateau of the Unjustly Condemned"

Kronos opened a portal - it was identical in type to the ones Malacoda had opened - and ushered us all through. He came through last himself and stopped Alice from her head-counting routine with an assurance that everyone had come through. The Plateau was a depressing palate of brown, nearly-dead-looking trees, and gray rock with patches of lifeless soil here and there. Hatter broke a branch off a tree wondering if it would speak. Kronos assured Hatter that, in spite of appearances, this was most definitely not the Wood of Suicides. "According to Dante, the Wood of Suicides was one of three rings in the Circle of the Violent. That will be the next circle, and there is are no rings in it. It is all one area marked by deep pits full of boiling blood. There are at least fifty feet of vertical rock wall surrounding each pit of blood. The pits vary in their depth according to the depravity of the shades therewith condemned. The shallowest pits are located along the outer wall and the deepest pits are located next to the central shaft." Kronos led us along the outer edges of the plateau which was fenced with seven-foot-tall blackened wrought iron of the sort we had seen in the City of Dis. It was clear that it would take an effort to fall off the top of the plateau.

"I could give you a thorough-going discussion of the famous shades trapped here on this plateau, but I will mention only one of them. Minos has a bit of a soft spot for revolutionaries and idealists, and is loathe to dump them in the Circle of the Violent which is the most common destination suggested by the Celestial Judges for these unfortunates. It is often said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. This is literally true. Here on this bleak plateau is the shade of Ernesto 'Che' Guevara."

Two days ago at least half of Alice's "guests" would have cheered at the knowledge that "Che" Guevara was in Hell. After what they had seen in the last two days, however, they were remarkably subdued in their response to this revelation. They whispered among themselves a bit, but that was all. Kronos continued with a brief biography of Guevara which explained how he had ended up here.

"Ernesto Guevara de la Serna was born in Argentina in 1928 to an upper-middle-class family with left-wing sympathies. He grew up in an intellectual environment in a home filled with books, and was quite well-read by the time he graduated from high school. He chose medicine as his field when he entered the University of Buenos Aires. In 1951, Guevara took a year off from his university studies to go on a now famous motorcycle journey across South America with his friend Alberto Granado. He later wrote a book about his travels entitled 'The Motorcycle Diaries.' It was on this trip with his encounters with the dire poverty endemic throughout Latin America of the time that Guevara's political consciousness developed. After his motorcycle trip, Guevara returned to Argentina and completed his medical degree. In 1953, Guevara set off on another journey which took him through the countries of Central America. While in San Jose, Costa Rica, Guevara wrote a letter to an aunt which spoke of the United Fruit Company, now known as Chiquita, as a 'capitalist octopus.' In December of 1953, Guevara arrived in Guatemala which, at that time, had a democratically elected social reformist government headed by Jacobo Arbenz. Guevara decided to settle in Guatemala and ended up witnessing the CIA-assisted overthrow of Arbenz. This, no doubt, contributed greatly to the ruthlessness which was later attributed to him. Guevara fled to the Argentine consulate and eventually won a safe-conduct pass to Mexico, where his fated meeting with Fidel Castro took place. It was the overthrow of Guatemala's democratically elected reformist government that convinced Guevara of the need for a Marxist government achieved through armed rebellion. Guevara was convinced that the United States would destroy any democratically elected left-wing governments through CIA subversion or even invasion. He was later proved correct when President Johnson sent around 42,000 U.S. troops into The Dominican Republic in 1965 to support a military dictatorship against an armed uprising attempting to restore the overthrown democratically-elected President Juan Bosch. President Johnson claimed that Bosch was going to turn The Dominican Republic into another Cuba. Peace Corps volunteers who were serving in The Dominican Republic at the time were aghast that the United States would intervene on the side of dictatorship. Then on September 11, 1973, the CIA was heavily involved in the military coup against the world's first democratically elected Marxist president in Chile. Notice the month and day of that coup. General Pinochet ruled Chile as a vicious dictator for the next 16 years. Guevara was proved correct again."

Kronos looked around to see how his audience was reacting to his account, but most of them were obviously already familiar with the story of how Guevara became a revolutionary. Two days ago, most of them would have scoffed at his account as sympathy for communist tyranny, but after what they had already seen in Hell, they were beginning to understand that they themselves might be the 'bad guys.' And there was worse to come in the sixth and seventh circles. Kronos continued his account with Guevara's role in the Cuban Revolution.

"Guevara joined up with Castro's 26th of July guerillas and rode with them on old, leaking yacht named the Granma. Castro's band of 82 were attacked by Batista's military almost immediately after landing, and only 22 of them escaped. Guevara had originally intended to be the group's combat medic, but Castro discovered that his recruit from Argentina had a gift for field command. Castro was highly impressed and made Guevara both his second-in-command, and the leader of a second column of guerillas. Guevara turned out to be an extremely harsh disciplinarian and was responsible for the execution of a number of guerillas under his command who had been accused of being spies or deserters."

"In December of 1958, Guevara led a near suicidal attack on Batista's soldiers in the Battle of Santa Clara. Guevara's men were outnumbered by a factor of ten-to-one and were at times completely surrounded and overrun by Batista's soldiers, yet on New Year's Eve of 1958, Guevara's guerillas took control of Santa Clara. Batista fled to The Dominican Republic on January 1, 1959. Castro's new government set up war crimes tribunals to try Batista government officials it considered guilty of atrocities, and placed Guevara in charge of handling the appeals of the convicted. Some biographers reported that Guevara appeared to relish carrying out executions of the convicted, and described Guevara as a 'hardened' man. It must be acknowledged, however, that many of those convicted by the tribunals were guilty of grotesque tortures and atrocities. Batista's government was estimated to have killed about 20,000 opponents. A public survey conducted at the time showed about 93% public support for the tribunals process. The Cuban public was clearly in the mood for vengeance against Batista's accomplices. There are no definite numbers available for the number of people executed with Guevara's approval, but the approximation usually cited is 'several hundred.' Guevara himself defended the executions as necessary to protect the revolution. When one considers the history of U.S. involvement in Latin America, it is entirely possible that he was correct."

"In October of 1959, Guevara went to work as Director of the Industrialization Department of the National Institute of Agrarian Reform. In November of 1959, Castro also appointed him the President of the National Bank of Cuba. Guevara was tireless in his two jobs and sometimes worked 36 hours straight. He hoped to 'lead by example,' and his goal was the creation of a 'new man' who was motivated by moral incentives rather than the usual material ones. Guevara's contempt for capitalism as a ruthless competition between unequals was well-known."

Kronos then indicated that it was time for us all to get some sleep and took his leave of us. Alice had me make my usual trips back to Wonderland to ferry dinner and water for everyone, and I played waitress for the next hour. While in Wonderland, I stopped by Alice's bedroom and picked up her Looking Glass weapon which allows her to become invisible for around 20 seconds at a time. Don't ask me how it works. I do know that it takes about twenty-four hours to recharge for another use. Alice looked grateful when I handed it to her remarking that she had never thought to bring it along. Both of us agreed that it would be highly useful in the next circle. While the Senators ate, they conversed among themselves on the topic of the amount of violence that was permissible in bringing about needed social change. Ted Kennedy brought up his brother Jack's famous quote that those who make peaceful reforms impossible make violent revolutions inevitable. As I listened in to the comments the Senators made, I was struck by the degree of a change of heart that so many of them seemed to have experienced. Some of the more conservative Senators even apologized to the Senate's more liberal members. Two days ago, Ted Kennedy would have been savaged for repeating the quote from his brother Jack.

Alice had been quiet as the Senators talked among themselves, but as conversation died down, Alice summed up the dilemma of violence used to bring about social change. "The real question is how many rich people are going to have to die so that the rest of us can live in dignity?"

End of Chapter 26

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante.

Rest in peace, Teddy.

Chapter 27: Chapter 27  
Chapter 27: "Here Be Dragons"

Alice had just asked how many rich people would have to die for ordinary people to live in dignity, and Senator Bernie Sanders, who had been quiet up to this point, finally spoke to her. "Surely you're not serious? Are you actually suggesting armed revolt?" Senator Sanders was probably the most left-wing member of the U.S. Senate, and yet even he was sensible enough to know that talk of revolution was utterly irresponsible. I was startled, myself, and wondered if the rage potion had finally gone to Alice's brain.

"I certainly do mean it. I'm not suggesting mass slaughter of rich people. I'm not advocating it. I don't support it. I'm saying that I am convinced it will happen if current trends in the U.S. and the world continue. I'm sure you are all aware of reports from the Paris-based Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development - the OECD - which states that the United States has the third highest level of income inequality and poverty among the the thirty member states. Only Mexico and Turkey have worse statistics. A tiny group of people at the top of the human food chain - less than one percent of us - have seized extraordinary amounts of income and wealth since 1980 through esoteric forms of financial speculation that can only be described as financial parasitism. They are vampires. They are sucking the rest of humanity dry for the sake of more wealth than any human being could enjoy in ten thousand lifetimes. There is no possible justification for this. I brought you Senators here in one last attempt to avoid the impending paroxysm of violence. I brought you here to convince you. To show you. To make you feel. When I take you back, you must convince the U.S. government, your fellow representatives, and the entire world of the need for a new social order that is not based on idolatry of private property rights. You must succeed. If you fail, the world above will become a science-fiction nightmare. Deep in your hearts you must know this. The fabulist Aesop once wrote that freedom for wolves is tyranny for sheep. Freedom for the wolves - free trade, free enterprise, economic freedom, whatever perverse combination of the word 'freedom' with an obfuscation for social darwinism apologists for mind-boggling greed can think of - must come to an end. It will end. One way or another it will end. Have you ever walked through big American cities with their boarded up factories, foreclosure signs everywhere, and homeless people huddled in the shadows everywhere you look? You know I'm right. Say a prayer for me as I cross the Sixth Circle alone. Here be dragons."

Alice began unloading weapons from her apron and dress and handing them to Hatter and me. The only weapons she kept were the Angel's Sword, the Eyestaff, and the Puzzle Box. She asked me for the Ice Wand. I knew that the Ice Wand was useful only at point-blank range. I said a silent prayer that she wouldn't need it as I handed it to her. At that point I handed Alice the Looking Glass and the Deadtime Watch. Alice refused the Deadtime Watch saying that it was too dangerous to be used even once. It had never been used a single time. What if it malfunctioned during use? How far was its reach? Hatter had said that he had always regretted its invention. Alice handed Hatter the Deadtime Watch and told him that he knew what he must do in the Sixth Circle with it. Hatter shook his head up and down. Yes, he knew. Alice now explained her plan for getting across the Sixth Circle without fighting the ruling dragons.

"I'm going to use Hatter's little hand telescope to repeatedly blow smoke portals to the most distant point. I hope to get across the Sixth Circle before the dragons catch up with me. With luck, and some help from this Looking Glass which allows about twenty seconds of invisibility, I hope to get across without firing a shot. This will mean skipping a tour of the Sixth Circle, but I think you all instinctively understand just who is in the Circle of The Violent anyway. I don't want to fight multiple dragons simultaneously. The Jabberwock during Wonderland's Civil War was enough."

Alice now suggested that everyone stop jabbering and get some sleep as tomorrow would be exhausting. About six hours later, Alice woke me and told me she was going to depart before everyone woke up. "It's better this way," she said. "When everyone else is awake, the portal to the entrance to the Seventh Circle will be waiting for all of you. Just walk through. I'll close it with a jackbomb when everyone has come through." I argued with Alice for perhaps ten minutes trying to convince her not to cross the Sixth Circle, but her mind was made up. With everyone still sleeping, I shared with Alice a long, lingering kiss which I prayed would not be the last. At that point, I was barely aware that she looked like a demon.

Alice took out her bong and smoke powder and "fired up." She held Hatter's small hand telescope in her right hand and the bong in her left hand. She had her Looking Glass in her right apron pocket with the velcro seal undone for quick reach. The Eyestaff, Ice Wand, and the Puzzle Box were in her left apron pocket, again with the velcro undone for quick reach. I prayed that she wouldn't need them. The Angel's Sword was in a steel holster on her left hip, and, for what it was worth, the Bowie Knife was in its usual holster on Alice's right hip. Alice nodded a good-bye to me and blew a portal to the exit to the Fifth Circle. From the Plateau, I watched her disappear into the corridor.

Two hours later we all woke up to find a breakfast left for us by an unseen benefactor the same as we had experienced in the Haunted Wood just beyond The City of Dis. Another picnic of black tea, nuts, and fruit of every type was laid out on a gleaming white cloth for us all. There was also the bag with a small shovel and large, flat, smooth leaves. We all knew what that was for. I started to feel an unease, and looked around for Alice's portal, but it was nowhere in sight. In the distance on the Plateau, I saw what looked like one of Malacoda's portals open. I thought it was Alice. She walked up to Hatter and handed him the Angel's Sword - which he was now able to lift. I walked up closer and saw the face. It wasn't Alice.

End of Chapter 27

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante and is in the public domain.

Chapter 28: Chapter 28  
Chapter 28: "Medusa"

Some of the senators jerked their heads away when they realized that our visitor was not Alice. She was wearing a dark blue robe that came down to just below the knees with a sash around the waist. It was eerily similar to Alice's dark blue dress. No apron, though. Alice could have easily lost that in a battle with the dragons. The face was narrow and gaunt with hollowed-out cheeks - the opposite of Alice's face. Still, she had an unearthly beauty that reminded me of a certain emaciated English actress.

"Contrary to what you may have learned in the world of the living, you will not turn to stone if you gaze upon my face. That is a myth that came from the Greeks. Neither am I the embodiment of female rage against a male-dominated world. I am Medusa, and I am the Queen and ruler of the Seventh-Circle demons. I am here to escort you through the Sixth Circle. We haven't much time and must leave immediately. Your guide was successful in clearing the path through the Sixth Circle. We have fifteen minutes of safe passage at the most. Hatter, you will be the guide until we reunite with your guide in the Seventh Circle. She is still in one piece, but that's about all that can be said. Rhadamanthus has her in his chamber and is caring for her."

Medusa opened a portal directly to the walkways of the Sixth Circle. Hatter strapped on the Angel's Sword and stepped through the portal first. It was an act of courage which I had not expected of him. Medusa herded the senators through, and then Medusa and I went through together last.

The instant I stepped out of the portal the heat and steam of the Sixth Circle sent me to my knees. Ahead of me I saw all of the senators choking and gasping for breath. Great clouds of reddish steam rose from deep pits spattered everywhere in the Circle. The odor of fresh blood sickened me. Columns of fire shot through the floor of the Circle everywhere I looked and spread out against the ceiling of the Circle. The entire "sky" of the Sixth Circle was a raging boil of flame. Large flakes of burning ash floated down in a dense, slow downpour giving the illusion of being enveloped in a swarm of oversized fireflies. The flakes burned briefly when they landed on my head and skin, but mercifully they did not ignite my clothing.

Everything was in shades of red, orange, and gray. This was the Hell of childhood nightmares. I felt dizzy, and it took all of the energy that I had just to stand up. I felt drunk. To think that Alice had fought dragons in this place. The walkways had gaps where the stone had been blown away. I thought of pictures I had seen of Berlin, Germany in 1945.

Ahead on the walkway was a dragon that had had its neck severed from its body and its eyes gouged out. Vine-like strands reached from the head to the body and ever-so-slowly pulled the head toward the body. Behind us Alice's puzzle box gyrated wildly with a plane of strands beaded with sharp diamond-like hooks reaching out about seven feet from the puzzle box in all directions. Because the axis of the puzzle box rotated, the plane of hooks appeared as a sphere of flesh-ripping cords. Small pieces of dragon flesh sticking to the wall dripped all over the walkways. Chunks of dragon flesh on the walkways oozed liquid and put out thin threads that dragged them toward each other. The fact that the puzzle-box weapon was still here told me that it was time-unlimited and that Alice had never raised her hand for its return. Perhaps she was unable. Cooking down on the floor of the Circle lay a third dragon that had been chopped in half. Dragon blood sizzled on the rock everywhere around it. Medusa began a description of Alice's battle with the three dragons.

"The battle itself took only about 60 seconds. Your guide spent about an hour walking down the staircase toward the Sixth Circle. When she arrived, she wisely spent about an hour observing and waiting for an opportunity when all of the dragons - there were three of them - were out of sight. She blew a portal to what is nearly the halfway point, and from there blew another portal and used the looking glass before she stepped in. By that time the dragons had spotted her."

"Two of the dragons headed straight for the portal Alice had just stepped through, but one was intelligent enough to head for the portal that had most recently opened. Alice was invisible when she stepped out of the portal, but the dragon was waiting for her and snatched her in his mouth. He got quite a surprise when he bit down on her. Nearly every tooth in his mouth broke off. Almost half his teeth went flying out of his mouth in all directions, and almost half of the remaining teeth broke off in Alice's body. She ended up with about fifty dragon's teeth embedded in her body about an inch deep."

"The dragon snatched her in his mouth - he gummed her - and tossed her up into the air with the intent to swallow her. Alice was still invisible and so was her Angel's Sword. Alice rammed the Angel's Sword down into the dragon's snout, swung around, and sat down right in front of his eyes. She pulled out that small knife she carries on her hip and gouged out both of the dragon's eyes. The dragon was not happy at all, and tossed Alice, who was still gripping the angel's sword in one hand, off his snout. She brought the Angel's Sword down on his neck and severed it."

"By this time a second dragon had spotted the commotion, and came winging toward the scene. Alice was still invisible and flung the Angel's Sword at the second dragon's neck. Her aim was a little less than perfect - understandable under the circumstances - and she chopped the dragon's body in half instead of just severing his neck. That's the dragon you see - and smell - on the floor of the Circle down below."

"Alice now started to flicker and was no longer invisible. The third dragon landed on the walkway and opened his mouth with the intent of flame-broiling Alice. She tossed a small metal box down the dragon's throat and started to charge that cane-looking weapon of hers. The dragon jerked backwards as if he were choking and Alice fired what looked like a laser beam at him. It had no effect. She then aimed it at the walkway on which the dragon was standing, and the dragon jumped backwards. The walkway collapsed in that spot and Alice unloaded the remainder of the cane weapon's charge under where the dragon was now standing. He was still gagging on the metal box and jumped backwards again. Another piece of walkway collapsed, and now the dragon appeared to have a seizure and exploded into a rain of small, finely-diced pieces of meat."

"At that point, Alice collapsed onto the walkway, and it was all over. Rhadamanthus, Malacoda, and I had all watched from Rhadamanthus' chamber. Circle bosses have absolute authority over their Circles, and it is forbidden for bosses of other Circles to interfere. When the third dragon went down, it became permissible for me to enter the Circle."

"I picked up Alice and took her to Rhadamanthus' chamber where Malacoda is waiting nearly hand-and-foot on her. Quite smitten he seems to be. Even more-so now that he has seen your guide in her natural form. Scars and all. Rhadamanthus stripped the teeth out of your guide's body and later the potion out of her bloodstream. He left the potion in just long enough to heal the wounds from the dragon's teeth. Alice had received many times the fatal dose and would have never reverted to normal had he not stripped it out. Her body would have burned up eventually from the accelerated metabolism and continuous adrenaline surge."

"The last I saw, she seemed comfortable, but was understandably exhausted. You will meet her again in the Seventh Circle."

The senators were all mesmerized by Medusa's description of the battle that had just taken place, and one of the women asked Medusa what they all were wondering. "Just what in the Seventh Circle is so important that she was willing to fight three dragons to get us to it?" I had my suspicion, and Medusa now confirmed it.

"Alice wanted you to see some very special inhabitants of the Seventh Circle. You will recall that you heard from Minos that Rhadamanthus, the Judge of the Seventh Circle, has the power to snatch the souls of the living and throw them into the fire while leaving the still-living bodies occupied by demons - those small black-skinned demons you saw in Minos' Chamber. Alice believes that the sight of those inhabitants will change the course of history in your world. She has the faith of a child. That is why she has been so stubborn."

At this point, the curiosity of the senators was so whetted that I doubt that any of them would have chosen to end the journey at this point and go back home. Hatter, too, was fascinated, and his need-to-know overwhelmed his opposition to the entire venture. Medusa began a brief explanation of the inhabitants of the Sixth Circle.

"I cannot take you down to the surface of the Sixth Circle because the surface down there is even hotter than the floor of the Fifth Circle. I can give you a brief verbal tour, but that is all as we have fewer than twelve minutes before the dragon with the severed head that you see on the walkway pieces himself back together and grows a new pair of eyeballs."

"First, let me specify who you will not find in these pits of boiling blood. You will not find the remorseful, the penitent. Only those who were willfully evil will be found here. They chose their fate. The Violent of this Circle are here because they chose to be here. Likewise, you will not find here the insane. The insane have a special place. They are not held responsible for what they could not help. Now let me describe the souls which you will find here."

"Those who committed a single murder or rape, and honor killers are dropped in the pits that have boiling blood to a depth of about half a meter. The boiling blood slicks the walls and the bodies of the shades so that climbing is impossible. Every soul who has just been dropped into the pits attempts to climb the walls or the backs of fellow shades. It is impossible. The steam from the pits coats everything in an exceptionally slimy film."

"The honor killers are the group with which you are probably least familiar. Honor killing is the arbitrary execution of a family member or community member who is thought to have brought shame upon the family or community. It is most common in Islamic countries or countries with large Muslim populations. Usually, but not always, the victim is a woman. The most common reasons for the honor killing of a woman are refusing to enter into a marriage arranged by the family, being the victim of a sexual assault, seeking a divorce, committing or being accused of committing adultery, and becoming active in politics."

"In April of 2008, a woman in Saudi Arabia was murdered by her father for chatting on the website Facebook with a man. Her father will end up here. In the United States, Yaser Said was accused of killing his eighteen-year-old daughter Amina and his seventeen-year-old daughter Sarah on New Years Day in 2008 after discovering that they had boyfriends. Said remains at large at this time. In a remote village in Iran in 1986, a woman named Soraya was falsely accused of adultery by her husband who wished to rid himself of her in order to marry a 14-year-old girl. The husband bought off enough village men to serve as witnesses on his behalf to rig the all-male tribunal. Since the custom required a wife accused of adultery to prove her innocence, the result was a foregone conclusion. Soraya was found guilty of adultery - and stoned to death. The husband will end up here when he dies. Stoning is a ghastly way to die."

"Those who committed multiple murders or rapes end up in a pit with about a meter of depth of boiling blood. Lots of serial killers down there. Jack the Ripper is, of course, down there. Kenneth Bianchi and Anglelo Buono, Jr. are down there. They were known in the media as 'The Hillside Strangler.' Ted Bundy is in one of the pits with a meter depth of blood. The ghoulish cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer is down there. John Wayne Gacy 'The Killer Clown,' John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo 'The Beltway Snipers,' Vincent Johnson 'The Brooklyn Strangler,' Richard Ramirez 'The Night Stalker,' Gary Ridgway 'The Green River Killer,' William Suff 'The Riverside Killer,' and Aileen Wuornos who was the subject of a movie are all down there boiling more or less up to their waistlines."

"Minos really did not want to throw Aileen Wuornos into the Sixth Circle because he suspected, but wasn't sure, that she was insane. She may still end up on the Plateau with the other unjustly accused. Minos has been known to change his mind. Like any good judge, he worries constantly about making a mistake. The Insane have a special place which you will encounter in the future. In Hell, we try to avoid punishing the Insane, unlike certain countries in the world of the living. David Berkowitz, for example, who was known as 'The Son of Sam' is not found here. He was insane, and is in that special place."

"Gang killers and acid throwers also end up boiling in a meter of blood. Acid throwing attacks usually involve the throwing of hydrochloric acid or sulphuric acid into the face of a woman. The acid damages skin tissue and can expose or even dissolve bone. The result of an acid-throwing attack can include blindness and always includes permanent scarring of the face. Anywhere the acid hits is scarred. These attacks commonly occur in Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Cambodia, India, Pakistan, and other Asian countries. The reasons tend to vary according to the country."

"In South Asia, acid attacks occur as revenge for the refusal of proposals of marriage, refusal of sexual advances, and refusal of demands for dowry. In Cambodia, wives have been known to throw acid into the faces of their husbands' mistresses. Tom O'Neill of National Geographic reported that acid attacks are used by upper-caste Indians to enforce the caste system. In Bangladesh and Pakistan, acid attacks are used by angry husbands as revenge against a wife they believe to have 'dishonored' them. The New York Times reporter Nicholas D. Kristoff says that acid attacks are at an all-time high in Pakistan and are increasing every year. According to the Rand Corporation, hundreds of women in Afghanistan, Kashmir, and Pakistan have had acid thrown into their unveiled faces by male religious fanatics for the 'crime' of being improperly dressed. In 2002, Bangladesh enacted the death penalty against acid throwing attacks and now strictly controls the sale of acids. Acid throwing attacks have been known to occur against men as well."

"Into the pits with about one and a half meters of boiling blood go the war criminals and war rapists. War criminals are those who ordered or participated in the mass slaughter of unarmed civilians. There are so many incidents throughout history that I haven't time to catalogue them here. Recent events of war crimes include Arab militias in the Darfur region of The Sudan attacking villages of black Africans, leaders of the Lord's Resistance Army in Uganda kidnapping boys and forcing them to serve as soldiers and kidnapping girls and giving them to commanders as 'wives,' Charles Taylor of Liberia who used child soldiers to kill about 250,000 people, leaders and soldiers of the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone who were infamous for chopping the limbs off of civilians, the Congolese army and and its militia opponents who are both guilty of raping and pillaging, Israel attacking civilians in its endless conflict with Gaza and the Palestinians in Gaza using suicide bombing and rocket attacks against Israeli civilians, the United States' use of torture in CIA interrogations, genocide against Tutsis in Rwanda by Hutu militias, Colombian government support for right-wing paramilitary death squads, rebels of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia who engage in kidnapping, the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, and Serbian military attacks on civilians in Srebrenica and Sarajevo during the breakup of Yugoslavia. I could give many more examples of war crimes."

"War rapists are soldiers and civilians who ordered or participated willingly in mass rapes which occurred in war zones. During the 1994 Rwandan genocide, an estimated 250,000 to 500,000 women were raped. The victims were mostly Tutsi women and girls of all ages. The United Nations Special Rapporteur on Rwanda Rene Degni-Segui stated that rape during the Rwanda genocide was systematic and used as a weapon. During the Bosnian War of 1992-95, an estimated 20,000 to 50,000 women were raped. Most of the rape victims were Muslim women who had been attacked by Serbian soldiers. At the end of World War Two, Red Army soldiers of the Soviet Union are estimated to have raped around 2,000,000 German women and girls. Red Army soldiers were no better behaved in Poland where they were also guilty of mass rapes. During the Bangladesh War of Independence in 1971, an estimated 20,000 Bangladeshi women were raped by Pakistani soldiers during night raids on villages. Pakistan disputes that number, but has admitted that some rapes did occur. The Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly known as Zaire, is the place with the worst currently occurring sexual violence in the world. Since wars broke out in 1998 in the eastern Congo, it is estimated that there are 200,000 still-living rape victims in the area. According to the United Nations, there were 27,000 rapes in South Kivu Province in 2006 alone. The final place that I will mention is the Darfur region of Sudan. According to Pamela Shifman of the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), armed militias rape women and girls with impunity. This is yet another war in which rape is systematically employed as a weapon."

"Another group of offenders who get tossed into pits with about a meter and a half of boiling blood are the child abusers and molesters, and genital mutilators. You are already familiar with the concept of child abuse and child molesting. You are probably less familiar with the concept of genital mutilation. Female genital mutilation (FGM) is a barbaric tribal custom which occurs mostly in Muslim African countries to girls of the ages of four to eight. The countries in which it is most common are Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, and Mali. In spite of the places in which it occurs, FGM has nothing to do with Islamic religious practices. According to Unicef, both Islamic and Coptic Christian leaders in Egypt reject the practice entirely and condemn it as barbaric. Most countries in Africa where FGM occurs have either outlawed the practice directly, or rely on existing laws to prohibit its practice. The practice of FGM remains legal in Sudan and Somalia. Somalia, of course, does not really have a functioning government."

"There are four types of FGM, but I will explain only three of them. The fourth is a catch-all category of the miscellaneous. The World Health Organization defines Type 1 FGM as the partial or total removal of the clitoris and/or the clitoral hood. Type 2 FGM is the partial or total removal of the clitoris and the labia minora. Type 3 FGM is an absolute nightmare for the victim. Guy Pieters, M.D. described the procedure in the New York State Journal of Medicine. He stated that Type 3 FGM involves the removal of external genitalia including the labia minora and the inside of the labia majora. The person doing the procedure, not always a doctor using anesthetic, then uses stitches or thorns to hold the labia majora together. Sometimes a girls' legs are tied together for two to six weeks to prevent her from moving them and disturbing the stitches or thorns. When the wound is healed, the only opening that remains is a small one that allows urine and menstrual blood to escape. The first instance of sexual intercourse requires another cutting. Without sanitary conditions, FGM can lead to infections and bleeding to death. Even when done by a doctor using sterilized medical instruments, FGM can result in urinary and reproductive tract infections caused by obstructed flow of urine and menstrual blood. It can even result in infertility. Needless to say, the procedure causes girls a great deal of stress and psychological problems. Anybody who needs to barf please aim over the side of the walkway."

"Another bizarre African custom that results in the guilty being tossed into about a meter and a half of boiling blood is the practice of force-feeding little girls to the point of morbid obesity as preparation for marriage and to satisfy a male fetish for obese women. This occurs among the Moors of Mauritania. Sometimes it is done by the mothers, sometimes the girls are sent off to fattening camps in the vacation months between school years. The little girls are tortured to force them to overeat and are also forced to eat their own vomit if they gag. The idea behind the practice is that the extreme obesity triggers an early puberty so that the girls can be married off young. Moorish men think of obese wives as status trophies to show off their wealth on the assumption that a fat wife has servants to do everything for her. Most Moor girls are married at the ages of 12 to 14. You can imagine the long-term health effects of this practice. There is also the loss of physical agility and the psychological effect of being robbed of the ability to run, jump, and play like normal children. Minos has no tolerance for this abominable cruelty whether it is carried out by the owner of a fattening camp or by the girl's own mother. Into the pit the tyrant goes."

When I heard Medusa talk about the Mauritanian practice of force-feeding, I thought that perhaps it was fortunate that Alice was not around to hear it. Alice is quite athletic and, considering the way she swings around on the vines in Wonderland Woods, is probably the closest thing on the planet to a real-life Tarzan. She would have been furious at this. After we got out of this place, I'm sure she would make a point of it to visit Mauritania and blow up all the fat camps. Oh, the western news media would go crazy over that. Psycho Alice of Wonderland loose in Mauritania. Get all the Peace Corps Volunteers out of the way.

Medusa looked nervously at the dragon ahead of us on the walkway. The vine-like strands had pulled the head to within a few inches of the body. Medusa estimated that we had about six to seven minutes before the head was reattached and the eyes fully regenerated. She decided to move us and opened a portal to what she said was the dragons' perch. It was a ring-like structure that surrounded the central shaft and had a mote of lava surrounding it. Medusa had a use in mind for the lava.

We all herded through the portal following Medusa's lead, and Hatter came through last. He said he was making sure that everyone went through. He didn't count heads like Alice, though, and nobody seemed to notice. I admit that I felt nervous about the failure to count heads, and made a secretive attempt to count. Without everyone lined up, however, it proved impossible for me. Medusa had a bit more to tell us about the Sixth Circle's inhabitants.

"Completely immersed in the boiling blood, about two meters deep, are the worst of the violent. In the deepest pits you will find political figures responsible for some of history's biggest bloodbaths. The absolute worst of those, however, are likely to be found in the Seventh Circle."

"Here completely immersed in boiling blood in the Sixth Circle is Harry Truman for two nuclear bombs used on civilians and the Korean War. Lyndon Johnson is here for the Vietnam War. Richard Nixon is here for his support of the coup in Chile on September 11, 1973 which overthrew a democratically elected president and replaced him with a military dictatorship which lasted from 1973 to 1989. The military dictator installed in Chile is in the Seventh Circle. His name was Pinochet, and Rhadamanthus will tell you all about him."

"We have in the deepest pits land thieves who systematically deprived people of their livelihoods. For example, in Colombia, which is in the middle of a civil war, some international resource extraction companies which are interested in mining, logging, and palm oil plantations, have been paying armed groups to chase peasants away from their land. Other resource extraction companies resort to legal trickery to obtain title to lands. In Peru, President Garcia has proposed a "Law of the Rainforest" in which the government of Peru would take private title to an unspecified amount of rainforest land which currently has no official owner. He hopes to sell the land to which Peru takes official title to national and international private investors. The rainforest residents are terrified that they will simply be herded off land on which they have lived since pre-Colombian times."

"At this point, do I really need to mention that the entire continents of North America, South America, and Australia were essentially stolen from their native inhabitants? Also the United States effectively stole the state of Hawaii when a group of businessmen overthrew the Hawaiian monarchy in 1893 and convinced President McKinley and the U.S. Congress to approve annexation in 1898. In 1993, President Clinton signed a formal apology to the Hawaiian people for the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy. The bill had been passed by both houses of Congress."

While Medusa spoke about the land thieves, I looked up at the flaming sky and saw what looked like black threads everywhere which showed up clearly against the background of an orange-flame sky. It was Minos' tails carrying newly damned souls. Everywhere I looked I saw what looked like falling stars splashing into the pits. It was an infernal soul shower. Medusa had only a little more to say as she looked nervously into the distance.

"Also into the deepest pits go merciless judges and lawmakers, corporate entrepreneurs who make their fortunes converting food such as corn into fuel, and corporate agribusiness leaders who, instead of following the time-honored practice of raising cattle on grasslands, herd cattle into feedlots and feed them enormous quantities of corn to produce meat for the affluent while negatively impacting the supply of basic grains which feed the poor. According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, 7.0 pounds of corn are required to produce one pound of beef. Feeding corn to cattle to produce beef reduces the food supply. Feeding grass to the cattle would actually increase the food supply. We are nearly out of time. Isn't there something you wanted to do with your Deadtime Watch, Hatter?"

I was standing behind the Senators while Hatter was standing up at the front. I had a decent angle to see over the edge of the "Dragons' Perch." I watched as Hatter threw the Deadtime Watch without hesitation, and with an obvious sigh of relief, over the side into the lava down below, where it disappeared without a ripple.

End of Chapter 28

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante and is in the public domain.

Version 3

Chapter 29: Chapter 29  
Chapter 29: "The Empire Builders"

With one eye nervously on the horizon, Medusa opened a portal and hustled us through. Hatter whispered to me to go last, and went through first himself. Medusa all but started shoving the poky senators through the portal, and as the last one went through, I saw why on the horizon. One very big, mean, nasty-looking dragon was winging his way toward us and would land in seconds. Medusa balled up her fist and threw, three in a row, what looked like tiny fireballs. They opened up into miniature whirlwinds that reminded me of Alice's spinning top, but these whirlwinds morphed into pillars of flame which blocked the approach to the portal. Medusa ushered me through and came through last herself.

I had expected to walk out onto the walkway of the Seventh Circle, but instead found myself in the stairwell between the Sixth and Seventh Circles. The dank, stale air in the stairwell smelled positively sweet compared to what I had been breathing. Medusa stated that she had decided to give us all a chance to breathe half-way decent air before immersing us in the ash and grit beshrouded air of the Seventh Circle. Medusa walked to the front of our group and led us down the walkway. With her back to us, she began to speak of what we would find in the Seventh Circle.

"Rather than wait until we are choking and coughing on the walkways of the Seventh Circle, I will tell you of who you will find there here while we are traveling in relative comfort. The Seventh Circle is, of course, the home of the worst. We call them 'The Empire Builders' because that is exactly what they were. These are, or rather were, the souls who were bent upon building empires - political empires, financial empires, corporate empires - to gratify their own personal egos while ignoring the effect of their decisions on everyone around them. You will find the usual suspects down here, and a few you might not expect. Rest assured that every soul in the Seventh Circle fully deserves to be there. The worst dictators of the twentieth century are, of course, there. Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot are there for reasons all of you should be familiar with. Tojo, the Japanese Prime Minister during World War II, is there also not just for the crime of starting a war against the United States, but also for war crimes in China, the Philippines, Indochina, and Pacific island nations. Tojo is considered responsible for the murders of millions of civilians in those nations mentioned. General Augusto Pinochet, who overthrew the democratically elected government of Chile and ruled as a dictator from 1973 to 1989, is here. According to the Rettig Report, Pinochet's government is responsible for the disappearance of 2,279 persons. The Valech report claims that the Pinochet government tortured 31,947 people and exiled 1,312. About 200,000 people fled Chile to get away from Pinochet's dictatorship. Pinochet's adherence to dogmatic free-trade economic policies produced what some economists called 'The Chilean Miracle.' That 'miracle,' however, had the effect of greatly increasing inequality and poverty in Chile. The former King Leopold the Second of Belgium is here largely for what he did with the Belgian Congo. He ran the Belgian Congo as a private landholding. Through extreme brutality and slave labor, King Leopold the Second extracted a fortune from his colony. The author Adam Hochschild estimates that approximately half the population of the Belgian Congo died during the period of King Leopold the Second's rule. A more recent arrival is Robert Mugabe, the long-serving dictator of Zimbabwe. He is here for his indifference to the starvation of his own people and conducting a reign of terror to suppress opposition. In the Seventh Circle you will also find the former Indonesian dictator Suharto who is estimated to have to have presided over the slaughter of anywhere from 78,500 to as many as 2,000,000 members of the Indonesian Communist Party during his slow-motion coup against President Sukarno."

Medusa became silent for a moment as we stepped down the ever-so-slight curve of the staircase. She seemed to be listening for something, and after a few minutes of silent walking, we became aware of what she was listening for. Off in the distance, we could hear a roar. Some thought it like a train, others likened it to a hurricane. I thought of a wind tunnel. As we continued stepping downward, Medusa informed us that the Seventh Circle consisted of a burning forest - a great, massive forest fire. She had already mentioned that the Seventh Circle was a fire in the Sixth Circle, but we all knew what the Seventh Circle was from Minos' description of it at the beginning of our descent. The roar became louder and louder with each passing minute.

"Also down in the Seventh Circle is Boris Yeltsin, who derailed Mikhail Gorbachev's intended democratization of the Soviet Union in order to seize power for himself. After dissolving the Soviet Union and assuming the presidency of Russia, Yeltsin used his authority to force through a privatization of state assets which amounted to a giveaway to a small group of politically connected people. A few people became fabulously wealthy during the Yeltsin era, while the percentage of people living below the poverty line swelled to 40 percent by the autumn of 1998. I find it difficult to conceive of another instance in history in which so few stole so much from so many."

"Another head of state in the fire is the U.S. president Andrew Jackson. I know most people don't associate him with any great evils, but he does indeed have one great albatross hanging around his neck. Rhadamanthus snatched his soul because of his Indian Removal policy. While the Cherokees wept and died in the march to Oklahoma, Rhadamanthus visited Jackson at the White House and gave him a chance to save himself. Jackson did not believe - and paid the price."

"In Equatorial Guinea, the dictator Macias Nguema was so vicious that a third of the tiny nation's population fled to other countries during his reign. Two of his laws were the death penalty for threatening him or anyone in his government and 30 years in prison for insulting him or anyone in his cabinet. During Macias Nguema's tenure, Equatorial Guinea had no development plans and no accounting system for government funds. Nguema had the governor of the central bank killed and then carried off what was left in the national treasury to his own house. The country developed a reputation for 'suicides' by political detainees in its prisons. Macias Nguema was overthrown in a coup by Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo in 1979 and executed."

"We have a long line of monarchs from Saudi Arabia in the fire, including King Fahd and Crown Prince Abdullah, who became King in 2005. The reasons are always the same: opression of women, no freedom of press, speech, or religion, political organizations are banned, and punishments for crimes are barbaric. For example, the opression of women manifests itself in the fact that only five percent of the workforce in Saudi Arabia is women. Only men are allowed to drive cars. There is no right to organize trade unions or political parties. Islam is the official religion and all citizens are required to be Muslims. Public practice of other religions, by foreign workers for example, is forbidden. Saudi Arabia uses flogging and amputation of hands and feet as punishments in its courts. For serious crimes, beheading is used. Woe to the innocent who is wrongfully convicted of a serious crime in Saudi Arabia! Any sexual activity outside of a traditional marriage is prohibited. Even cross-dressing can result in a serious punishment. In 2007, Saudi Arabia punished a nineteen-year-old girl who had been gang-raped with 200 lashes and a prison term. Her 'crime' was riding in the car of an unrelated male at the time of the rape. The original sentence was 90 lashes which the court believed to be lenient. When the girl protested through the media, the court increased the number of lashes to 200 to make an example of the girl. Rhadamanthus was so incensed he snatched the soul of the judge immediately."

"Enver Pasha, Mehmed Talat Pasha, and Sukru Kaya were snatched in 1915 due to the leading role they played in organizing the Armenian Genocide. The total number of Armenians who died at the hands of the Turks is generally estimated at between one million and one and a half million. The demons who were sent up to occupy their bodies were so appalled at the idea of having to carry out the original plans of the humans whose bodies they occupied that they begged Rhadamanthus to be allowed to destroy their hosts by suicide. That is not the way things work around here, however. When demons occupy a body, they are required by Celestial Law to mimic the behavior of their hosts in a convincing manner. Every once in a while, a demon disobeys and suicides his host anyway. Those poor demons end up banished to the City of Dis where they end up spending eternity as bureaucrats and retail clerks. You met some of them at the passport counters."

"There's a whole bunch of Burmese Generals down there for ethnic cleansing against the Karen people. The ethnic cleansing started with General Ne Win in 1947 and continues to this very day. In 2004, the BBC cited aid agencies in producing their estimate that up to 200,000 Karen had been driven from their homes during the years of conflict. The BBC also estimates that there are around 120,000 refugees from Burma, most of them Karen, living in refugee camps just inside the Thai border which neighbors the conflict area. Amnesty International has reported that the Karen have also been used as forced labor for the Burmese military. The All Burma Monks Alliance has reported that the Burmese military has been forcing non-Burmese women to work for them as porters during the day and as sex slaves at night. Parade Magazine rates the current Burmese dictator Than Shwe one of the ten worst in the world."

"The Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir is in the flames for ethnic cleansing and war crimes. The International Criminal Court in The Hague, Netherlands conducted a three-year investigation into the conflict in Darfur and came to the conclusion that the Janjaweed Militia and Sudanese armed forces involved in village massacres were acting on al-Bashir's orders. They issued a warrant for his arrest and Bashir danced on top of a platform at a public rally in response. A Sudanese deserter gave an interview to the BBC's Mike Thompson and claimed that his officers ordered him to '...burn the villages completely, ...poison the water wells, ...kill all the women, ...and rape girls under 13 and 14...' The deserter said that two soldiers who refused to participate in the atrocities were shot dead. The soldier blames al-Bashir for all the violence."

"Not everyone in the Seventh Circle is a head of state or military official. We've got robber barons down there, too. When you add the tally of atrocities, we sometimes wonder whether wars or capitalism have killed more people. Intuition would say wars straight off the bat, but when you add long-term environmental pollution, contamination of food and water, and preventable deaths from poverty to the death toll of capitalism, things get murky. For example, we've got a whole slew of Union Carbide executives who were responsible for the industrial catastrophe which took place at a pesticide plant in the city of Bhopal in India. The local government confirmed a death toll of 3,787 deaths due to the release of methyl isocyanate gas and other toxic gases. The estimated death toll is at around 15,000. Factors associated with the accident include

1\. use of hazardous chemicals instead of less dangerous ones

2\. storing chemicals in a few large containers instead of many smaller ones

3\. poor maintenance after the plant ceased production

4\. safety systems being turned off to save money

When you add in that the plant never should have been located near a densely populated area, it becomes evident that this accident was of a type that is inevitable. Indifference to the safety of local residents combined with a slavish adherence to minimizing costs is a recipe for tragedy. It wasn't just the Union Carbide officials who were responsible for this catastrophe. Local government officials who looked the other way, national government officials bending over backwards to create a 'business-friendly' environment, and no one taking responsibility for developing emergency evacuation procedures all contributed to the gas leak and the high death toll. We've got some of those government officials down there with the Union Carbide executives. They were all empire builders."

"We've got dozens of multinational corporate mining executives down there. Rio Tinto, the biggest mining corporation in the world owned ninety percent of the Kelian Equatorial Mining Corporation which set up a gold mining operation in Borneo which pushed the local people off their lands, destroyed homes, polluted the local water shed to the point that people were getting rashes and open sores, and even destroyed some gravesites. Kelian closed the mine in 2004. Rhadamanthus snatched the worst of their bigshots."

"We've got hundreds of people from what is probably the most evil corporation on the entire planet: Monsanto. What are the sins of Monsanto? I could write a book, film a documentary, bury you in paperwork from legal cases in which Monsanto was either a plaintiff or defendant. The topic overwhelms me. I will focus on just one thing that Monsanto has done. Genetically engineered and patented seeds. Monsanto sells a variety of soybean known as 'Roundup Ready.' The advantage for farmers of these seeds is that they have been genetically engineered to resist bugs and the Monsanto herbicide - or weed-killer if you prefer - 'Roundup.' Monsanto forbids farmers from saving the seeds from this variety and replanting them and has investigative agents colloquially known as 'the Seed Police' to enforce their patent rights. The problem for farmers is that farmers who plant non-patented seeds - known as 'public seeds' - have had pollen from farms planted with Monsanto seeds blow over into their fields and pollinate some of their plants. This leaves DNA evidence that Monsanto can use to sue farmers for violating their patents. Most farmers lack the financial means to challenge Monsanto's lawsuits and end up settling out of court to avoid being bankrupted by legal fees. Joe Mendelson, who is the legal director for the Center for Food Safety, stated that 'Monsanto's business plan for genetically engineered crops depends on suing farmers.' By 2004, Monsanto had already won fifteen million dollars in court awards from U.S. farmers. Activists have described this practice as 'corporate extortion.' The only sure way to avoid a Monsanto lawsuit is to use their seed. The North Dakota farmer Rodney Nelson has claimed that it is becoming difficult to purchase standard (public variety) seeds anymore because the seed dealers don't make as much profit from selling standard seeds. To make matters worse, Nelson claims, some standard seeds are now contaminated by genes from the patented seeds. Another North Dakota farmer described Monsanto's tactics in this way: 'Farmers are being sued for having genetically modified organisms on their property that they did not buy, do not want, will not use, and cannot sell.' Key positions in the U.S. Department of Agriculture and Food and Drug Administration are often occupied by former Monsanto employees. For example, President George W. Bush nominated Monsanto employee Linda Fisher in May of 2001 for an important position in the Environmental Protection Agency. So much for hoping for help from the federal government on this issue. It's a classic case of foxes running the hen house. Oh, yeah - don't get me started about those so-called 'Terminator Seeds' that grow plants that have sterile seed. Monsanto owns that, too, but has not yet used the technology commercially. What would happen if the 'Terminator' genes got loose in the wild? Could that mean the end of all seed-producing plants? That ought to scare anyone half to death. In 1999, Monsanto promised not to use the 'Terminator' technology in commercial products. Let us pray that they honor that promise."

Medusa became silent again as we stepped down the staircase. The roar from the entrance to the Seventh Circle now sounded close. Like a tornado. We could all smell an overpowering odor of burning pine and hear the crackle of what sounded like a giant campfire. The pop of boiling pine sap reminded me of a child's cap gun. Whether it was only a few minutes, or as many as fifteen, I don't remember. We were there.

"Take a moment to breathe deeply. When we pass through that door, the amount of oxygen in the air will drop to the absolute minimum that most people can tolerate. The heat will be worse than the Sahara desert at noon. That's just from the walkway against the wall. Stay as close as possible to the wall because burning trees will crash onto the walkway. The walkway is possibly a hundred feet wide. Do not let the width give you a false sense of security. I have seen burning trees fall and come within ten feet of the wall."

And in we went.

End of Chapter 29

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante, and the Longfellow English translation is in the public domain. You can download it from gutenberg dot org. Enter "Longfellow" into the author space and "Divine Comedy" into the title space. A search window will offer you four choices. The title of this chapter is taken from the play "Les Batisseurs d'Empire" written by Boris Vian in 1959.

Chapter 30: Chapter 30  
Chapter 30: "The Revelation of Rhadamanthus"

The seventh circle was just as Medusa described it. The instant we walked through the stone slit - you couldn't really call it a door - we all staggered a few steps and then slid down back against the wall of the circle to catch our breaths. Before us was the burning forest that Medusa had described, and, just as Minos had said, the entire circle was a lake of fire. There was not a single patch of ground visible that was not swathed in orange flame. Even with a walkway that appeared a full one hundred feet wide, we could feel the heat in our faces, as if we were too close to a campfire. We could hear pine sap popping and splattering, and every so often a gob of it landed on the walkway as little as ten feet away. One gob of boiling pine sap splattered against the wall above our heads, and several senators moved to avoid having it ooze down their backs. The burning forest itself was a marvel of collapse and regeneration: every tree grew and toppled on a continuous cycle. Then it re-grew thrusting upwards again. We could see shades in the midst of the flames. They were continually having burning trees topple on top of them. Every so often a shade would get speared by a regenerating tree. Some of the burning trees that collapsed onto the walkway had a speared shade at the crown of the tree. The shade would walk away from the tree with a gaping hole in his body where the tree had speared him, overjoyed, no doubt, at the momentary release from the flames. Then one of the small demons that sat at the edge of the walkway with his feet dangling over would spring up and drive the shade back over the edge down into the burning forest. The drop-off over the edge of the walkway must have been at least fifty feet. Probably higher. From the distance, we got the impression that the shades of the seventh circle melted like wax figures and then reformed.

Medusa let us breathe undisturbed a few moments, and then hustled us up to begin our walk. "It's only about ten minutes to Rhadamanthus' Gallery from here," she said. "Rhadamanthus has a gallery of oversized paintings in a hallway that is entered from the main lobby of his home. He also has an enormous living room, a vast study with filled bookcases lining the walls, a library that is the largest you will ever see in your life containing volumes written in every language that has been given a writing system, and more bedrooms than any hotel. You will see very pretty maids who look entirely human at first glance, but a warning to you senators: don't pinch any bottoms as the maids are demons. One glimpse of their tongues and you will lose all desire." Medusa then led as at a deliberately slow pace to a distant door, reminding us to stay pressed against the wall to avoid falling trees. No reminder was necessary as several trees fell during our walk. The demons lining the walkways kept busy chasing shades impaled at the tops of the trees back into the forest.

"Welcome to my home. It has been centuries since I last had visitors." Rhadamanthus' voice boomed throughout the lobby as we entered, but we saw no one. Everywhere we looked we saw hallways leading to unknown destinations. Classical paintings hung everywhere on the walls in the lobby. All of the Renaissance greats were there. Famous French painters, the Dutch masters, an endless array of museum pieces. Some of them were paintings that no human on Earth had seen. Originals. Rhadamanthus entered his lobby dressed like a painter.

"He looks like Vermeer," said Medusa. "None of you would know that as no portraits of Vermeer have survived in the world of the living. Look up on the wall to your right. Do you see that painting above the piano? That is the missing portrait of Vermeer." Medusa nodded at the painting, and then turned her attention to Rhadamanthus. We glanced at the portrait and then again at Rhadamanthus, trying not to be rude. Was Rhadamanthus the painter Vermeer?

Rhadamanthus invited us into a dimly-lit hallway lined with enormous paintings on both sides. Most paintings were around 12 feet long and 8 feet high, but a few were larger, with panoramic vistas. The paintings were unique in that they appeared to be animated. Every second or two, one could see features of the paintings move. It reminded me of stop-motion animation - only this animation was much slower than any animated movie. The animations were in the form of eternal loops of 30 seconds, 60 seconds, and sometimes minutes. Constantly repeating the same period of time. "Welcome to my Gallery of Shadows," said Rhadamanthus. "This is the place that I use for those whose sins required a unique punishment, personally tailored. Each painting holds at least one soul. Most hold a much larger number. Come. Take a tour with me."

Rhadamanthus led us forward into the hallway lit only by the fire of dim gaslights jutting out from the walls on both sides between the paintings. Eerie multiple shadows were cast as we walked. The floor was stone tile, and the walls were obviously marble. The fires of the gaslights reflected in the marble. Rhadamanthus stopped before one painting which was of the snow-covered top of a mountain.

"This is a mountain that does not exist. It is higher than Mount Everest and even colder. Observe the poor shades imprisoned in this painting. See them shiver. See how their noses, fingers, and the toes of their bare feet turn black and fall off. See how the appendages that fall off from frostbite rapidly grow back pink and healthy, only to turn black again in seconds and fall off. Behold."

Rhadamanthus waved his hand and the hallway disappeared in a shimmer. A moment later we stood on the mountain top with the shades, but we did not shiver. "Concern yourself not with these unfortunates. They cannot see or hear us. We are but whispers in the winds that wrap around them for eternity." There were shades everywhere we looked by the thousands at least.

"Who are these people?" asked Senator Sanders.

"They are the evictors. These are people - sheriffs, landlords, bank officials, real estate owners, etc. - who threw people out into the open, often in the middle of winter, without finding someplace else for them to go. In the civilized world, it is a crime to dump a pet by the side of the road, yet people are dumped by the side of the road all the time. It is called property rights. At least, that is what you call it. I have another word for it, which I will not speak at this time."

I looked at the shades shivering in the snow. Unlike most of the shades I had seen in Hell, these shades were not naked. They were wearing what looked like summer clothes. They were barefooted. Their shirts, pants, and dresses whipped in the howling winds, and they folded their arms across their chests as they shivered. Every minute or so, their noses, fingers, and toes would turn black, fall out, re-grow pink and healthy, and then turn black again. Their faces and the rest of their exposed skin looked frozen and hard, like glass. If I had been able to touch them, I think I would have been able to shatter them with a swat of my hand. As in other areas of Hell, my hand passed right through them.

"Another painting," said Rhadamanthus, and he waved his hand. Once again we were back in the dimly-lit hall of gaslights and enormous paintings. Rhadamanthus led us to painting of a water hole in a desert. "These are the water privatizers. These are the corporate executives who bought up public water systems, increased rates, and cut people off who could not pay. These are the people who caused cholera epidemics because it served the bottom line. Now they stand for eternity at the side of a water hole where the water is so polluted and toxic that a single mouthful causes the body to dissolve into a liquified mass of shit. Observe those puddles of what appears to be diarrhea. See how they thirst. Behold."

As before, Rhadamanthus waved his hand, and our hallway disappeared with a shimmer. We found ourselves in the middle of what appeared to be the Sahara Desert, surrounded by hundreds who stood and stared at a pool of stagnant, toxic water with desperate, agonized thirst on their faces. Every once in a while, one dropped to his knees and drank. Within seconds, his body would start to dissolve into a brown, gelatinous mass as he shrieked like a rabbit being torn apart by a gang of feral cats. As before, we did not feel the environment of our surroundings, and our hands passed through the tortured shades. "So as ye inflicted thirst upon the unfortunate, so shall ye thirst for all of eternity," intoned Rhadamanthus. He waved his hand again.

Back in the hallway with our shadows wavering on the wall like a hazy dream. Rhadamanthus walked a bit further and stopped in front of a painting of an enormous wolf pack tearing thousands of humans to pieces. "These are soldiers who hid among civilians as a tactic of warfare. Because of their actions, noncombatants were killed in huge numbers. Modern instances of this occurred in the Korean War when the North Korean Army forced civilians to march in front of them to make an invading force appear to be refugees, in Afghanistan when Taliban soldiers hid among civilians in towns and cities, and in Palestinian Territories where Hamas militia hid among civilians so that they could accuse Israelis of war atrocities when they inevitably retaliated. Come. Let us see the eternity that they have earned." Rhadamanthus waved his hand.

We were on a mountainside in an evergreen forest on a moonlit night. We were able to see at first only dim outlines of everything as very little of the moonlight filtered down to the forest floor. The scent of pine filled the icy air. Although it was hard to see, we could certainly hear. Screams of terror and pain surrounded us. As our eyes adjusted, we became aware of the wolves surrounding us as their yellow eyes glowed in the dim patches of moonlight that scattered here and there. Their coats blended right in to the darkness. They growled and munched noisily as their human victims screamed while being eaten alive. In about three minutes, the wolves' feast was finished and they vanished into the trees. A moment later, a large group of humans came running frantically, and the cycle repeated itself. The never-ending time loop. The damned in this painting spent all of eternity repeating the same few minutes over and over and over again. "The events you have seen," remarked Rhadamanthus, "are on a five-minute cycle. The shades dropped into this painting get eaten once every five minutes. They were wolves among the civilians when they were alive. Now they are the prey."

Rhadamanthus waved his hand and we were back in his Gallery. "Come with me to the end of this corridor. An old friend of yours awaits a reunion." When Rhadamanthus referred to an old friend, we weren't sure who he meant, but when he flung the door open to a chamber, we had our answer.

Hatter nearly ran me over. He raced right into the room and, kneeling before Alice now dressed in a classical Greek robe, kissed her hand and swore that he would never, ever take her for granted again. Alice gestured for Hatter to stand up and graciously hugged her old friend. I kept my distance as I did not wish to interfere. I would wait until we returned to Wonderland for a private reunion. Alice and Hatter walked out of the room into the hallway with all the Senators and nodded to them. Hatter stripped the Angel's sword and its holder off his waist and gave it to Alice. "Never in my life have I felt such a heavy weight," he said. The senators, who had remained silent, began to clap. First Senator Sanders, then a few others, and finally all of them.

Rhadamanthus, who had been waiting silently watching the spectacle between Alice and Hatter, now spoke to us all. "It is time for you to see what you all came here for." Rhadamanthus led us down a series of hallways that led to a rear door that opened back onto the walkway of the Seventh Circle. In the midst of the choking grit and the raining ash, we spied Medusa on the walkway. She had been waiting for us.

"Only a few minutes in this choking murk, and then we'll be out of here." Medusa began expanding in size and jumped off the side of the walkway, swatting falling burning trees out of the way as if they were teacups on a table. We saw her grow to a height that towered over the walkway and equalled the height of the tallest trees in the burning forest. Her hair expanded into a crown of writhing, thick snakes as big as Amazonian pythons. She disappeared into the flames and trees, and, in a few moments, was back with a figure each dangling from the fingers of both her right and left hands, and four more figures suspended from the mouths of squirming snakes from her head. Each of the figures appeared as a constantly jerking, wax-figure marionette. The skin, muscle, flesh, and finally organs constantly melted like running wax on a figure from a museum on one side as the nearly stripped skeleton regenerated the same on the other side. Eyes ran and re-grew again and again. Faces dripped and reformed like candles burning down and then reversing in time. Flames from the burning forest shot up around Medusa's impervious body and robe. Medusa swatted away collapsing trees with the backs of her hands with the annoyance of someone shooing away flies. The figures were so deformed that at first we didn't recognize them. A few moments later we discerned them all: George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Alberto Gonzales, Jeb Bush, and Kenneth Blackwell. Compatriots and accomplices in multiple crimes all, they kicked and jerked like epileptic Pinocchios.

End of Chapter 30

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante.

Chapter 31: Chapter 31  
Chapter 31: "The Pit"

"Well...," said Senator Kerry, "that was certainly a surprise." His voice dripped with sarcasm. No one else said anything at all. By this time, I think most had figured out the purpose of Alice's trip. Still, I think everyone had to see the current leadership of our country burning in the flames for the reality of the nation's fall from grace to sink in. Most of the Republicans and quite a few of the Democrats showed an intense unease in their silent faces. I'm sure most of them were thinking about the sin of complicity with evil. Guilty. Nearly the whole bloody lot of them. Bernie Sanders didn't look surprised at all. Medusa tossed her prey back into the flames and climbed back onto the walkway, shrinking as she climbed. A figure we had never seen before approached us from the direction of Rhadamanthus' home.

Dressed in flowing white robes just like Alice, the figure was a fair-haired youth. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. Probably younger. "Rhadamanthus wishes you all to return to his home for dinner and a night's rest. You all deserve it. Each of you will have a bed all to yourself, but you will have to share a room with one other person as we don't have enough rooms available for everyone to have a private room. Hatter will share with me." The Senators looked at each other and then at the youth.

"Have we met before?" asked one of the women Senators. "I don't remember you."

The youth smiled and introduced himself. "I am what Dante referred to as the Heavenly Messenger. I, along with quite a few others, have been monitoring your progress from the moment you arrived in the Vestibule. Come. It is time for dinner."

The youth turned around and led us back into Rhadamanthus' home into his library which had numerous long tables set for dinner. A variety of steaming, hot dishes sat on the tables, and there were quite a few bowls filled simply with unadorned fruit, nuts, and wedges of cheese. Dozens of bottles of wine as well as water pitchers graced the tables. A cluster of fragrant mint leaves garnished each plate. Rhadamanthus' maids scurried about filling the water glasses with ice. It was up to us to pour the already opened bottles of wine.

Rhadamanthus turned out to be a most gracious host and joined us at the table for dinner even though he had no need of eating. He initiated numerous conversations about what we had seen in our journey, and, like a professor at an elite college, asked socratic-style questions to get us to analyze what we had seen. As everyone talked among themselves, Rhadamanthus circled through his library putting rare books on the tables for us to examine. Some of the volumes were art histories with plates of nearly every famous painting for a century. Whole books dedicated to the art of Goya, Gauguin, Ingres, Picasso, Ives, Chagall, Kahlo, Rivera, Yi Yuanji, and numerous others graced our dinner tables. Rhadamanthus seemed not the least concerned of the possibility of a glass of wine tipped on one of the books. While paging through a book of the murals of Rivera, Senator Kerry suddenly had the strangest look on his face, and directed a question to Rhadamanthus.

"Why were Jeb Bush and Ken Blackwell in the flames?" The obvious had not yet sunk in.

"They were guilty of a massive fraud on the entire population of the United States. A fraud which enabled further frauds - especially the ransacking of the U.S. Treasury of behalf of a small investor class elite." Rhadamanthus should have been more direct. Senator Kerry still seemed unwilling to consider the obvious. Senator Sanders spoke up next.

"John, what he's telling you is that you won in 2004. And Al won in 2000. Jeb Bush and Kenneth Blackwell are in the flames for election fraud. For enabling the disaster that was and is the Bush administration. Rhadamanthus, when did you snatch George W. Bush?"

"The instant the first bomb fell on Iraq." Rhadamanthus needed to say nothing more. Senator Kerry had a blank look on his face as the realization that he was the legitimate president sank in.

Alice, sitting at another table, turned around and faced him. "What would you have done differently if you had taken office in 2004?" Senator Kerry turned pale. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke.

"Not enough," he said. "I didn't know then what I know now. I would have been only a slight improvement over George W. Bush. I would have set a timetable for withdrawl from Iraq. However, I probably would have let myself get bullied by the Republicans into moderating any ambitious attempts to bring real change to the country. I would not have challenged the free trade agenda that has ruled U.S. economic policy since Reagan. I would have continued the war in Afghanistan. I would have ignored the lack of regulation in the banking industry. I would have ignored the hidden unemployed. I would have done little about the enormous and increasing gap between the fabulously wealthy and everyone else. I don't think it would have taken me long to disappoint everyone. Face it: the whole bloody lot of us elected representatives, with only a few exceptions like Bernie here, are bought and paid for. The only difference is which group of corporations is the owner." Senator Kerry laid his chin down on the table. "I am a whore," he said. "I am a political prostitute." He looked miserable, and his misery was contagious. Nearly all of the Republicans were staring at the floor like scolded schoolchildren. Most of the Democrats wore long, chastened faces. No one attempted to challenge what Senator Kerry - actually President Kerry - had said.

"The misery which I see on nearly everyone's faces tells me that this trip has accomplished its objective," intoned Rhadamanthus. "You have all rejoined the human race. Every last prerogative of priviledge has been wiped clean from your conscience. You have been purified. Come with me into the Gallery. I have gifts for all of you."

We followed behind Rhadamanthus as he led us back into his Gallery of Shadows. With gaslight flickering in front and behind us, Rhadamanthus announced his gift for the Senators first. "From this day forward, you shall have the wisdom to recognize bullshit when you hear it, and the courage to challenge that bullshit immediately. You shall also have the eloquence, both poetic and coarse when need be, to overwhelm the bullshitters and persuade the thoughtless. You shall be doormats for the lobbyists and investors no more. You are now your own men - and women. Your days of being owned are over."

Next Rhadamanthus called forth Hatter. "You have a genetic condition which causes an unnatural, extremely aged appearance of your skin. The defective chromosome is now repaired. Your body will repair itself as you sleep tonight. Tomorrow you will awaken a new man. I also give you the gift of being able to open portals with your mind as you have seen the circle bosses of Hell do. No more will you need to fumble with powder, bongs, matches, metal boxes, etc. No more will you run the risk of running out."

Alice was next. "To you I also give the gift of being able to open portals with your mind, as I know that you will make good use of it. I also give to Wonderland in your name copies of every book I have in my library. Your home shall have the most magnificent library of rare books in the world. I know that you and your fellow inhabitants of Wonderland and Pale Realm shall appreciate them far more than the residents of the materialistic world above you. It takes a special people to still appreciate the printed word and image in the age of computers and the internet."

Alice was so overwhelmed that she sat down and began to cry. "Books! How did you know?" Out of a pocket in her robe she pulled out a tattered copy of "The Divine Comedy." It was the only copy in Wonderland, and the binding was beginning to fall apart.

Last was me. "You shall age at the same rate as Alice, so that you may spend your lives together." Alice hugged me, tears still rolling down her face. Now I would live the same, extremely long lifespan that the other inhabitants of Wonderland lived. Instead of being merely a short-term visitor, I was now to be one of them.

With the giving of the gifts over, Rhadamanthus led us up a stairway to the second floor of his sprawling home which consisted of, among other things, several hallways consisting exclusively of guest rooms on both sides. The Senators paired themselves off, male with male and female with female, and Hatter and the Messenger entered their room. Alice and I walked in to a room at the far end of a corridor of mostly women Senators. The room was lavishly decorated with paintings, one of which had a tropical setting and appeared to be a Gauguin. Alice checked for a signature, but couldn't find one. On a marble desk in front of a wall mirror was a pitcher of water and several glasses in a tray. I had the impression of an old hotel room in France. In the bathroom on the mirror was an engraved plate warning not to drink the tap water in what must have been twenty different languages. I didn't bother to count the thin engraved lines. I wondered how long it had been since the room had last been occupied. Rhadamanthus' maids lived up on the third floor. The room gave me an eerie feeling and it took me the longest time to figure out why. I finally realized that the room had no windows. A metal grate at the top of the wall on both sides of the room provided some ventilation, but also allowed sound to travel back and forth among the rooms. Alice and I could hear two of the women Senators quarreling about something in what was probably two or three doors away from us. Someone knocked at our door.

"Enter!" said Alice, and the fair-haired youth that had introduced himself as "the Heavenly Messenger" entered. He walked up to Alice, put an arm around her waist, and said, "Forever my girl!" He acted as if he had known Alice for a long time. He had just that smitten look that I remembered seeing earlier, and my jaw hit the floor. "Malacoda," I whispered. I looked at Alice and asked, "How long have you known?"

"Since Malacoda made the mistake of standing within view of the Mirror of Souls. I caught just the briefest glimpse of him in the side of the mirror. I had had suspicions earlier, but then I realized that Malacoda wasn't the only circle boss who was passionate about justice. Just about all of them were. All but the Harpies and the Dragons. I brushed my suspicions aside. Then, at the Mirror of Souls, I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror. Just a fraction of a second. I saw exactly what you see here now. In spite of his appearance, he is positively ancient."

Malacoda bowed to Alice and kissed her on the hand in what appeared to be an old European gesture. "I just came to say good-bye. You're the loveliest demon I ever met, and you're even more beautiful now. A rosy-cheeked beauty like in the paintings of the old masters." Alice blushed a bit as she realized that "rosy-cheeked" meant "chubby." I sort of hoped that Malacoda would not pay me any such compliments. Malacoda pinched Alice on the cheek and then turned toward the door. "Such a beauty! I'll see you off tomorrow when you leave for the Pit beyond this Circle."

"Well!" I said to Alice. "It seems that you have an Angel who is smitten with you. What do you plan to do with him?"

"What can I do with him?" laughed Alice. "I wonder if Hatter and the Senators know who the Messenger really is?"

"Well," I said, "since Hatter and Malacoda are sharing a room, perhaps Malacoda will introduce himself. I'll tell Hatter later myself if Malacoda doesn't tell him. As for the Senators, I'll leave it up to Malacoda to decide whether or not to tell them. I don't think it's especially important that they know. Let's go to bed."

There were two double beds in the room, but Alice crawled into the same bed with me. I got up to lock the door, and then discovered that there was no lock. "Shall we share with no lock?" I whispered, mindful of the vents overhead which carried sound through neighboring rooms. "Pffffft!" whispered Alice. "They'd all have to be blind not to realize that we're a couple by now. I think the only person who doesn't know is Malacoda. He likes me, but there's not much he can do about it. I kind of feel sorry for him." With that we turned over and went to sleep. It felt like it had been forever since we had slept in a bed.

The next morning Hatter came and knocked on our door. "Up! Sleepyheads! Time for breakfast!" Alice tested her new gift of creating portals with her mind and made a quick trip back to Wonderland to get a fresh change of clothes. I suspect she wasn't entirely comfortable walking around in that Greek robe. It sort of looked like a filmy bathrobe to me. I was happy to see that she had chosen one of her white dresses. Somehow it seemed appropriate. Needless to say, Alice also laid out a fresh change of clothes for me. When I switched, I asked, "What to do with these?" I didn't want to just leave them behind. "Toss them in your room!" said Alice, opening a portal to my bedroom. Just like that.

When we reached the dining tables in Rhadamanthus' library, we got a glimpse of Hatter. What a difference! He was still ugly, but he now looked human. No more looking like a dried-up mummy walking around. Hatter obviously wasn't vain: anybody else would have been staring into a mirror. Hatter was looking at his hands and moving his fingers as if he were typing. It dawned on me that his former leather-like skin must have been quite a handicap when he was typing on a keyboard. Now it looked like his fingers could fly. I looked at all the stuff that Rhadamanthus had laid out for breakfast and commented to Alice, "It's a good thing we'll be leaving soon because a couple more of Rhadamanthus' meals and we both really will be rosy-cheeked!" Alice just laughed and ate like she was starving. After having all that rage potion in her system, it was understandable why. I noticed that her dress hung on her loosely. When the trip began, Alice's dresses were, if anything, almost snug. Her face looked the same, though. I hadn't expected to eat much for breakfast until I noticed the fresh lychee fruit on the table. An old favorite of mine that I had not had since I had had a home in the world that I now called "uptop." I suppose I made a bit of a pig of myself, but I'm sure nobody noticed. The Senators could not resist the lavish spread, either. Even the women Senators indulged in the fresh fruit without restraint.

When the breakfast was about finished, the Heavenly Messenger - Malacoda to Alice and me - strode to the front and offered to answer theological questions. "If you have ever had a burning religious question, now is the time to ask it." The Senators looked at each other, scratched their heads, and apparently came up blank. Neither Hatter nor I thought of any questions, either. Alice, however, had one question, and it was a whopper.

"Why are there carnivores? Whose idea was it to create an ecological system in which living creatures eat each other? How could the Designer be so cruel? With living animals preying on each other, it only makes sense for humans to treat each other as prey in a dog-eat-dog world of competition, as well." Alice was completely serious. The Messenger was taken completely aback. He scratched his head, paced back and forth a few times, and gave a great sigh.

"The great myth of all religions is that the Designer is omnipotent and infallible. The world and the universe were originally intended to be a place of plants and herbivores. Everyone was supposed to be a plant eater - including the creatures of the ocean who were to survive on kelp, algae, and other aquatic plants. No one foresaw evolution. We were blindsided. Some creatures discovered that they could gain a competitive advantage against other creatures by eating them. Things spiraled from there. It was not what we wanted. The Master is not cruel - not deliberately so. The cruel, angry, vengeful God of the Old Testament never existed. The people who wrote the books of the Old Testament had their agendas to promote. Religion in the world was used by all too many as an excuse for cruelty - for exercising power over others. At this very moment, Rhadamanthus is busy snatching souls. It seems this morning in Turkey a family decided to punish a daughter for having boyfriends by burying her alive. They killed to preserve what they called the family's honor. Sick to the core. In Afghanistan, a Taliban fighter cut off the nose and parts of the ears of his runaway purchased bride for the crime of shaming his family. He carried out the act in the mountains and left her to die, but she survived. When Rhadamanthus hears about such shocking barbarisms as these, he goes crazy. Sometimes he snatches the soul of someone who was supposed to go to the Sixth Circle, but Minos never begrudges Rhadamanthus his rage. Evolution begat competition begat cruelty begat barbarism. It was not what we wanted. It was not what we intended. Sometimes the Master watches what has become of his creation, and weeps."

Alice had the good sense to stay quiet after the Messenger's admission. So did the rest of us. Medusa walked into the room and announced to the Senators that it was time to leave. "Follow me," she said. "Alice, Arianne, and Hatter will catch up with you shortly. The Messenger has some important imformation to impart to them before they leave." Important, indeed. The Messenger - Malacoda - instructed Alice on how to crack open a demon-occupied body without making the kind of mess that Minos had made in his chamber. It was not necessary to tear the demon-occupied body apart. All one had to do was inflict a sharp blow to the sternum - the breastbone - and it would pop out through the muscle and skin. The occupying demons were instructed to exit through the opening where the breastbone had been. Usually this opening of the body took place after the demon-occupied body had died and was buried. Minos usually carried out the deed and then snatched the demon back to the Seventh Circle. Most Seventh Circle demons were overjoyed to return and escape the madness of the human world. If the body were opened while still alive, the occupying demon would probably believe that Minos had come for him and exit. The Messenger assured Alice that Minos or himself would promptly pick up any occupying demons that she forcibly released. "We know what you are going to do when you return to the human world. Neither Minos, nor Rhadamanthus, nor I object. I am giving you this information to make your task easier." It also turned out that the Messenger had a final gift for Alice.

"When you see a demon-occupied body, you will see a sliver of golden illumination at the breastbone. That will be the demon inside the body. This will prevent you from making the tragic mistake of a misidentification. Some politicians have been known to use body doubles."

I just had to ask a stupid question, one that I had been wondering about since I had seen the occupying demons in Minos' chamber. "How do the Seventh Circle demons fit inside a human body?" I felt like an idiot - as if everybody but me understood this.

"Do you remember when Medusa went into the fire to fetch the six shades she wanted to show you? Remember how she got larger, and then shrank again as she climbed back up onto the ledge? Seventh-circle demons can change size at will. When a seventh-circle demon enters a human body, it shrinks and enters through the mouth. It burrows through the wall of the esophagus, and attaches itself to the spinal column. It is about the size of an earthworm. It controls its host through nerves it commandeers in the spinal column. It's job is to fool everyone into thinking that the host is still alive. Once the soul is removed, the body is a mere lump of living tissue. Without the occupying demon, the body would soon die. Having your soul snatched by Rhadamanthus is sort of like having most of your brain removed. Think of the occupying demon as a brain replacement. The occupying demon can access and absorb all the memories of its host and thus do quite a good job of mimicking the host."

With that, the Messenger - Malacoda - hurried us out onto the walkway and hustled us toward the exit which was within view in between the clouds of smoke drifting over the walkway. Boiling pine sap splattered the wall just behind us, and we quickened our step as we wanted to leave as soon as possible. To the left, in the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like a meteor shower raining down amidst the smoke, grit, and ash. Seeing me eyeing the fireballs, Malacoda remarked "Rhadamanthus is busy" before ducking into the exit doorway. We hurried down the steps toward an area known as "The Pit." It was the home of the late repenters who were chained to the steeply sloping ground as if in a dungeon. The entire area was overrun with hordes of shade rats who knawed at the bodies of the late repenters. "On the day of the Final Judgment, the shackles will pop open and release the late repenters to tumble down the slope of The Pit. They will fall through the portal at the base of The Pit and enter the Vestibule to Purgatory. In this way they will be the last souls to enter Purgatory. The Circle Bosses of Hell will exit the same way, leaving the damned shades of Hell behind. Hell will then be destroyed, and its inhabitants will cease to exist." Malacoda hurried us to the stairway exit and we found Medusa and the Senators waiting for us. Malacoda whispered a good-bye to Alice and kissed her on the forehead before disappearing into one of his portals. Medusa began climbing down the side of The Pit and exhorted the Senators to follow. Alice, Hatter, and I brought up the rear. We found it necessary to pass through the bodies of the late repenters repeatedly, and this was profoundly creepy to me. The slope of The Pit increased steadily the farther down we climbed, and we increasingly found ourselves clinging to the scrubby brush that populated the steep incline. Hordes of shade rats ran right through us constantly. I couldn't wait to get out.

Down below us, Medusa loudly announced that she had taken us as far as we could go. The only thing remaining was to jump as far away from the wall of The Pit as possible and drop through the spiralling swirl of colors we saw down below. "That portal leads to the Vestibule of Purgatory. The rest is up to you."

End of Chapter 31

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written by Dante.

Chapter 32: Chapter 32  
Chapter 32: "The Refuge"

With that, Medusa left us. We all stared from our perches at the swirl of colored light below us. I suppose it was possible to climb further down, but the slope was becoming so steep that keeping a grip on the ground seemed impossible. Of the end of the downward slope, none of us could see the end. Alice climbed upward toward Hatter leaving the rest of us wondering what was going on. Alice wrapped both arms around Hatter's neck and gave him the wet, sloppy kiss he'd probably been dreaming of all his life. Not thinking, Hatter let go to put his arms around Alice, who gave a sharp shove against the ground with both feet. Down they went, pulled toward the center as they fell, still locked in a kiss. Hatter seemed oblivious to his downward motion.

Everyone looked at me. Now what? Was there really any choice? Saying nothing, I jumped as far out as my short legs permitted. I landed with a splash in a large pool. There was no sensation of having traveled through a portal at all. Alice and a still-blushing Hatter were on the shoreline with a foreign-looking man in an ancient robe. He carried a staff. "Plato," whispered Alice.

We all watched the pool wondering when our entourage of fraidy cats would come splashing down. We had to wait a minute before they starting arriving one-by-one. Alice counted them off and we wondered for a few minutes if she would have to go back for the last few. Who was the last? Who else? Senator Puddle. He did jump, though. Let's give him credit for that.

Our new guide, Plato, introduced himself to the senators who did not react with any surprise. I guess that, after what they had been through, nothing was able to surprise them anymore. "Welcome to the Refuge. We call this place that because it is the home of those who despaired of the human race. For a variety of reasons, they took their own lives because they felt that further existence served no purpose. They were tired of being human."

"This is The Wood of Suicides?" Hatter exclaimed in a startled tone. I looked around. We were surrounded by a dense forest of giant redwood trees hundreds of feet high. The pool we had just landed in was fed by a stream that went up a gentle slope. The stream continued downward at the other, lower end of the pool. Dense grasses and flowers in a riot of colors surrounded the pool and came up to our waists. Butterflies fluttered everywhere. High in the trees we could hear birds singing. Under the redwoods, themselves, a think blanket of needles covered the forest floor. There was no underbrush of any kind. We could see the sky from the edge of the pool, but when we went under the trees, the sky disappeared and we were enveloped by a dim twilight. The air was cool and fresh. Such a contrast from the choking grit of the air in the seventh circle.

Plato looked at Hatter and chuckled. "Yes, this is what Dante called The Wood of Suicides. It is not where Dante said it was, and it certainly isn't what you were expecting, is it?"

Hatter nodded his head. None of us could have dreamed that the section of Hell that we had noticed was missing could have been like this.

"Did you really think that a loving God would punish people for ending their own lives in despair? Is it really a sin to decide to end one's own existence when that existence has become unbearable? Would a loving God punish a brutalized slave for taking his own life? I think not. Dante was a religious man and a good man, but he did not tell the entire truth of Hell because he had his own agendas. The Catholic Church has long taught that suicide is one of the worst of sins. How convenient to Christianize slaves and teach them that Hell awaits those who find their existence as property unbearable. Some Christians point to the Bible as justifying slavery. Wrong. It was men who rationalized slavery, never the Deity. This is a place of refuge for those who succumbed to despair. Encased in these magnificent trees you will find the souls of those who thought that the only peace they would ever find would be that of the grave. You will find many refugees of war here. You will find the starving and the homeless here, too. There is no end to the suffering inflicted by men upon their fellows. There is no punishment here, only mercy. Those who find themselves here have suffered enough. This place is not a part of Hell. There are no shades here. You are in the Vestibule of Purgatory. Behold the Cathedral of Nature."

Plato led the way through the forest always following the gentle, upward slope. After awhile, the songs of the birds quieted, and the dim twilight faded into a silvery nighttime shimmer. After several hours of hiking, we saw a clearing up ahead. Plato forged ahead, and as we entered the clearing, we raised our eyes to Purgatory's own glittering array of stars.

End of Chapter 32

This story is based upon the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 33: Chapter 33  
Chapter 33: "The Philosopher Kings"

At the clearing, Plato led us to the left, announcing that he wanted us to meet the tree of a relatively recent arrival in "The Refuge." We reentered the forest, and hiked for a few minutes. Plato announced to us that the tree was the soul of Alyssa Peterson, a young woman who had been a soldier briefly in Iraq.

"Alyssa Peterson was an iterrogator assigned to the prison in an air base in the Tal Afar district. She was there because she was able to speak Arabic. Alyssa was ordered to take part in interrogations that involved what most people would regard as torture. After only two nights of working in a unit that was known colloquially as 'the cage,' she refused to participate any further. She received a reprimand for showing empathy for the prisoners and was sent to receive training in suicide prevention. On September 15, 2003, she shot and killed herself with her service-issued rifle. An official report of her death quoted her as saying that she did not know how to be two people: one person inside the cage and another outside the wire. A newspaper reporter named Kevin Elston reported that Alyssa Peterson could not keep her personal feelings separate from what the military required her to do. Her suicide occurred only a few days after her refusal."

Plato stared at the congressmen without saying a word. He didn't have to say anything. A young woman had killed herself because she had been ordered to be a monster, and she could not comply. There in front of Plato were a small group of people who had made this war and all the immoralities that flowed from it happen. Some of them winced and looked away from the tree. Plato took Alice's Bowie Knife and stripped off a long piece of bark. Holding it against the tree, he cut it into tiny pieces, and passed the pieces out to us. "Chew," he ordered. We did so, and images of the last few days of Alyssa Peterson's life flooded through our brains. It was as if, for a few moments, that each of us had become Alyssa Peterson. "And now you know why she killed herself," said Plato. "What would you have done, if you were in her place?" I don't think Plato really expected a reply, and he didn't get one.

Plato led us back through the dim, silvery light inside the forest to the brighter clearing that we had just left, and announced that just up ahead, at the border between "The Refuge" and Purgatory, was a strip known as "The Field of Night Poppies."

"The Field of Night Poppies is the home of the insane. Those who were incapable of knowing right from wrong for whatever reason are not dropped into the tortures of Hell. They spend eternity here encased in these flowers. They are not aware of anything around them, and live in an hallucinogenic dream of whatever it is that makes them happy. Most of them spend eternity entirely alone in imagined surreal landscapes of extraordinary beauty. Sartre was right for these people when he stated that Hell is other people."

Plato led us along the strip of Night Poppies, and then stopped in front of one. How he was able to recognize one flower from another was a mystery to me, but for him, every Night Poppy seemed to have a name on it. "This flower is a recent arrival from the Sixth Circle of Hell. It's the serial killer Aileen Wuornos. Minos was always convinced that she was insane and that it was an injustice to boil her in the Circle of the Violent. He finally got his wish. The judges of Purgatory removed Aileen from the boiling blood and dropped her here. If only the judges and legal systems of your country were as concerned with finding justice for a single individual whom most people would consider an insignificant person. There are no insignificant souls here."

"You might be wondering just why one half of this place seems eternally in daytime, and the other half seems eternally in night. Think of Purgatory as a solar system. The Refuge and Limbo share the first planet in Purgatory. The planet does not rotate, and thus the same part is always exposed to sunlight or to the stars of night. The soft winds that blow without cease bring warmth to Limbo and coolness to The Refuge. You also know that Limbo's only source of bright light is the Light of Human Reason. Right now, the Light of Human Reason has once again been reduced to a flicker. Just a day ago it was a roaring flame. However, with the disappearance of most of the U.S. Senate, plots are already being made to get rid of all of you once you return. Alice is regarded as a terrorist, and all of you will have your sanity questioned when you return. If you express any sympathy for her agenda, if you find a newfound interest in social reform, if you have developed a sudden revulsion for war, this will all be used against you to remove you from office and replace you with new sycophants for the corporate order. At the Gate of Purgatory, which lies on the boundary between The Refuge and Limbo, you will find two angels sitting beside an archway. The archway is a portal to the other planets of Purgatory. Each planet represents one of the seven deadly sins. All those admitted to Purgatory must pass through each of those seven planets. Purgatory is not a place of punishment or physical torments as described by Dante. It is a place of reflection and purification. Each of the seven planets is a place where one ponders his indiscretions for a time proportionate to the number of his indiscretions of that type. When one has passed through all seven planets, one waits at a place known as Terrestrial Paradise. No one enters Heaven until the day of final judgment."

Plato continued to lead us along the strip of Night Poppies, and off in the distance, we saw the archway that he had spoken of. An angel sat in a stone chair on each side of the archway. As we got closer, I saw that the two angels each had a sword strapped to his hip that was identical to the sword that Alice was carrying. Alice proposed to Plato to return the sword. Getting the attention of the angels, I thought, might prove to be difficult as in front of them was an endless line of people that stretched far back into The Refuge. Alice and I walked toward the two angels while Hatter hung back with Plato who halted everyone to wait.

The angel on the far side of the arch ignored Alice and continued to guide the line of souls through the Gate of Purgatory. The angel closer to us turned to Alice and spoke.

"I know why you are here. It is not yet time for us to take back the sword, for you have yet one more task to perform with it."

"What is that task?" asked Alice.

"You will know it when you have done it," answered the angel.

"When will I perform that task?"

"You will perform that task when you perform it. There is no set date. It might be a few days, a few months, or even a few years. You have a role to play. How you fulfill that role is not yet written."

"Can you tell me anything at all?"

"When the sword no longer returns to you, you have completed your task. We will then make no further demands of you. Go in peace, child. Virgil is waiting for you in Limbo."

The angel turned back to his normal duties, and Alice and I walked back to the waiting Plato. Plato turned away from the row of Night Poppies and led us into the increasing dimness of Limbo. After a short while, we looked up to see that the only source of light was Purgatory's nighttime display of an endless array of densely-packed stars. Limbo itself was an eerie landscape of leafless trees, leafless bushes, and mushrooms of all shapes and sizes growing everywhere. Some were as big as the "Killer Mushrooms" of Wonderland. Flowers as tall as trees bloomed high overhead with their petals reflecting the faint starlight. Gurgling streams sparkled in the distance. Ghostly Indian Pipe plants that ranged from waist-high to head-high grew in the spaces between the leafless trees and the mushroom plants. Everywhere wide-open clearings punctuated spaces of vegetation. Paths of flat stones lined up criss-crossed through the vegetation and extended into the clearings. The paths of flat stones extended across the shallow streams.

We continued to follow Plato's lead, and after a lengthy walk of unknown time - we had lost all sense of the passage of time - we saw a set of tables set up for us and a group of mostly, but not entirely, men waiting for us. They were all wearing simple, white robes of the sort we had seen Alice wearing when we met her in Rhadamanthus' home. Behind them we saw a series of low villas in a vast clearing. In the center of the villas was one very large building with what appeared to be a dim candle burning in a window.

Plato seated us at the tables, and I watched as Alice greeted the inhabitants of Limbo as if she had met them all before. Virgil, Homer, Sappho, Pindar, Aristophanes, Demosthenes, Aristotle, Ptolemy, Galileo, Voltaire, Marx, Proudhon, C. Wright Mills, Thomas Jefferson, Goya, Van Gogh, William Pitt the Younger and his friend William Wilberforce, Spartacus, Michaelangelo, St. Thomas Acquinas, Gauguin, Picasso, Jack London, Rousseau, and, of course, Dante. Dante had an embarrassed look on his face that I suspect was due to his partial fictionalization of his journey through the circles of Hell. Aristotle greeted us and invited us to sit at the tables.

"Welcome to Limbo. Although we of Limbo have no need to eat or drink, we have prepared as best we can, with what is available, food and drink for all of you. We apologize for the rustic simplicity of the offerings. It is all that we have. You must also remember that none of us is precisely the same person he was when he died. Some of us have had centuries to ponder our errors. I, for example, no longer defend slavery or treating women as intellectual inferiors. My friend Spartacus convinced me of the evil of slavery long ago, and if he hadn't, I'm sure that our visitors from Purgatory William Pitt and William Wilberforce would have. Sit my friends. The liquid in the wooden cups is rose-petal tea from the night roses here in Limbo. The fresh fruit and nuts were gathered from sources in The Refuge. The fried mushrooms are obviously from here." The plates were simple polished squares of wood. There were no eating utensils of any kind. The cooking oil used for the mushrooms was a crudely extracted sunflower seed oil. The simplicity of Limbo was striking. Material goods were close to nonexistant. Each inhabitant had for clothes only the robe that he was wearing when he arrived. The only metals we saw were tin and copper. There was not a single candle in sight anywhere. Most of us were no doubt thinking that eternity in Limbo must be mind-crushingly boring, but fortunately no one spoke that thought aloud. Our hosts, however, were quite cheerful, and appeared to be not suffering in the slightest from a lack of things to do. If anything, it was the lack of anything to do which seemed to be the source of their cheerfulness.

We all sat down to eat, and Aristotle addressed the topic of the purpose of the Senators' journey. "You were all brought here to learn a lesson. I hope that that lesson has been absorbed. Unfortunately, what you are able to do with your lessons learned is quite limited, as the government in which you participate is so poorly designed that it is a wonder that it did not collapse long ago. Your country claims to be a democratic republic with freely elected representatives. Any republic which allows election of the representatives must have one condition to allow it to function with any reasonable level of effectiveness. It must have a universal, high level of education available freely, without restrictions of any kind, to all. That is the foundation of a democratic republic. That condition does not exist in your country. The quality of education available to your citizens is almost exclusively a function of social class. Public schools in the wealthier areas of your country function fairly well, and the exclusive boarding schools, of course, offer the best educations. Public schools in poorer areas are usually a shambles. Most of your students in poorer areas are demoralized by the inescapable poverty that they see awaiting them after they graduate. Many give up and do not finish school because they see little use in your society for education. Your elections are a charade because poorly educated people are gullible and easy prey for manipulators such as the hosts of certain television news channels and talk radio stations. You would be better off without elections at all. Randomly selecting your representatives via a lottery using social security numbers would provide a more accurate sample of political opinion in your country. The result surely could not be any worse than the collection of mostly pandering idiots that populate your House of Representatives. As long as you allow the money of corporations and wealthy individuals to flood the airwaves of your country in the name of free speech so that they drown the opinions of those who are not so well-financed, you might just as well auction off seats in your Congress to the highest bidders. At least that method might help to solve your country's financial problems."

The Senators were taken aback by Aristotle's blast of fury. Most of them, however, were shamed into silence because they understood that everything he had said was absolutely true. After a few moments, Thomas Jefferson spoke up.

"After all this time, I am stunned that the United States still does not provide a free, publicly-financed education to all who are able all the way up through the university level. You also make people pay personally for trade-school education. Employers in your country are spoiled rotten. They expect young people fresh out of high school or college to do the work of seasoned veterans on day one. Then, after years of refusing to spend money on training their own workforce, they publicly decry the lack of skilled labor in the United States and go whining to the federal government for those skills shortage H1B visas so they can import a bunch of highly educated people from India and pay them substandard wages undercutting native-born Americans. Even worse, they outsource anything they can to countries in which wages are so pitifully low that the only difference from the slavery in my time is that these new slaves are bought by the hour instead of by the lifetime. If anything, these new slaves are even more oppressed and disposable than the slaves of my time. In my time, skills training for a slave was considered an investment, and it was in the best interest of a slave-holder to keep his slaves healthy. Now they're interchangeable parts as disposable as a paper dinner napkin."

Karl Marx had a Cheshire Cat grin on his face. "Careful, Tom old boy, you're starting to sound like me!" Thomas Jefferson caught his breath and continued.

"Every government degenerates when trusted to the rulers of the people alone. That man you have occupying the office that I once held is a disgrace to both the office and the ideals which founded our nation. How could a man so incurious and contemptuous of reflection and intellect find himself holding any political office in our land? He's not fit to be the head of a local county library system! If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be. George W. Bush occupying the White House is proof that the United States is in dire need of a new constitution and a new social compact between the rulers and the ruled. The distance between the two groups as currently stands is too great for the forms of a democratic republic to survive. You are headed for a new type of dictatorship in which elections, rather than being abolished, are simply bought in an atmosphere of fear and ignorance. A dictator is not needed when ignorance reigns."

"Are you sure you didn't mean to say 'social contract,' Tom, ol' boy?" Jean-Jacques Rousseau looked rather smug as he said it. His English was noticeably similar in accent to that of Jefferson. It was obvious who had taught him English. At this point, John Kerry finally ended the senators' silence.

"What would you suggest we do at this point in time when we get back?" Senator Kerry was looking directly at Thomas Jefferson when he spoke.

"With economic conditions varying so widely between states, the time has come to federalize funding for public schools. The task of educating the citizenry so that they might take part responsibly in the task of self-rule is too important to be left to states that might see education as an expense to be cut in times of financial crisis. It is regrettable, but necessary. I have long been an advocate of limited government, but education is one of the central functions of any government. Education and self-government go hand-in-hand. You cannot have one without the other."

John Kerry nodded his head and looked around at the other senators. One by one they nodded their assent, and so the federalization of public education became task number one on the senators' to do list for their return. Next, Jean-Jacques Rosseau took his turn.

"It is a pity that Franklin Roosevelt could not be here to speak for himself. I do hope he will forgive me if I repeat his words verbatim. On the sixth of January in 1941, Franklin Roosevelt made an extraordinary speech in which the last part consisted of what became known as 'the four freedoms.' What he had to say has so stuck in my mind that I have no need of a copy to recite it. It has been in my head nearly since the day he spoke it. What he spoke was nothing less than a social contract for the American people. A pity - and a catastrophe - that it was never implemented." At this point, Rosseau closed his eyes and began to speak in a tone that was eerily reminiscent of the voice of Franklin Roosevelt himself.

"The basic things expected by our people of their political and economic systems are simple. They are equality of opportunity for youth and for others, jobs for those who can work, security for those who need it, the ending of special privilege for the few, the preservation of civil liberties for all, and the enjoyment of the fruits of scientific progress in a wider and constantly rising standard of living."

"These are the simple, the basic things that must never be lost sight of in the turmoil and unbelievable complexity of our modern world. The inner and abiding strength of our economic and political systems is dependent upon the degree to which they fulfill these expectations."

"Many subjects connected with our social economy call for immediate improvement. As examples. We should bring more citizens under the coverage of old-age pensions and unemployment insurance. We should widen the opportunities for adequate medical care. We should plan a better system by which persons deserving or needing gainful employment may obtain it."

"I have called for personal sacrifice, and I am assured of the willingness of almost all Americans to respond to that call. A part of the sacrifice means the payment of more money in taxes. In my budget message I will recommend that a greater portion of this great defense program be paid for from taxation than we are paying today. No person should try, or be allowed to get rich out of the program, and the principle of tax payments in accordance with ability to pay should be constantly before our eyes to guide our legislation. If the Congress maintains these principles, the voters, putting patriotism ahead of pocketbooks, will give you their applause."

"In the future days, which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression everywhere in the world. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way everywhere in the world. The third is freedom from want, which, translated into world terms, means economic understandings which will secure to every nation a healthy peacetime life for its inhabitants everywhere in the world. The fourth is freedom from fear, which, translated into world terms, means a worldwide reduction of armaments to such a point and in such a thorough fashion that no nation will be in a position to commit an act of physical aggression against any neighbor anywhere in the world."

"That is no vision of a distant millennium. It is a definite basis for a kind of world attainable in our own time and generation. That kind of world is the very antithesis of the so-called 'new order' of tyranny which the dictators seek to create with the crash of a bomb. To that new order we oppose the greater conception of the moral order. A good society is able to face schemes of world domination and foreign revolutions alike without fear. Since the beginning of our American history we have been engaged in change, in a perpetual, peaceful revolution, a revolution which goes on steadily, quietly, adjusting itself to changing conditions without the concentration camp or the quicklime in the ditch. The world order which we seek is the cooperation of free countries, working together in a friendly, civilized society."

Rosseau opened his eyes. "It is time - it is beyond time - that you Americans joined the rest of the civilized world and offered your citizens the kinds of security that are taken for granted in most European countries. Even in many poor nations citizens can go to a clinic and see a doctor when they are sick without concern for cost. You Americans are just begging for a disaster if some epidemic or pandemic gets loose among your citizenry. With so many uninsured or underinsured, it is a certainty that your medically excluded will become vectors for the spread of disease to everyone - even the wealthiest eventually in their exclusive penthouses. Disease does not recognize wealth as a right to be passed over."

Ed Kennedy nodded his head and replied to Rosseau. "We've been working - and squabbling - over that one since Teddy Roosevelt proposed to cover everyone in his 1912 run for the presidency. Richard Nixon proposed a plan back in 1971 and again in 1974. When I consider what has happened since then, I wish that we Democrats had accepted the offer back then as it was probably the closest we ever got to insuring everyone. These days, Richard Nixon would be considered a dangerous leftist and would have Fox News screaming for his head. Oh how far we have sunk." Jack London turned toward Kennedy.

"You know, of course, that homeless people litter the streets in some of your largest cities. Have you ever considered any federal policies for that? Or will you continue to turn a blind eye claiming that it is a local problem and none of the federal government's concern?" Edward Kennedy slumped in his chair.

"We've done little besides talk about the problem and throw a few dollars at local governments. Housing vouchers are clearly no solution. Unfortunately, every time that we attempt to go beyond that, some Republican loud-mouth gets on national TV and starts screaming about socialism. The American public has been well-trained to panic at the mention of the word. It seems that the advocates of a dog-eat-dog society have won the debate."

"You need to de-mystify the word 'socialism' for the public. You need to stop letting right-wing nutjobs define political terminology. In other words, stop cowering when the Republicans attack and grow a backbone." Jack London surveyed the senators. "Can I presume that the Republicans among you have learned the lesson you were brought here to learn? That goes for a lot of you Democrats, as well. How many of you have ever changed a political position for the purpose of appealing to campaign donors?"

No one answered. Jack London decided to give us a definition of "socialism."

"Socialism is the public school system. It is social security and medicare for the retired. It is public libraries and the postal service. It is the fire department. It is the police department. It is the roads on which you all drive. It is the public school nurse who dispenses childhood vaccinations free of charge. It is the military which defends the nation - and invades other nations. Socialism is anything the government does for the benefit of all - and sometimes to the detriment of all. Socialism is nothing more than that sense that we're all in this together and that we should take care of each other. Without socialism, we would all live in Thomas Hobbes' war of all against all."

It was at this moment that Virgil, who had been silent up to this moment, finally spoke. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! These are our guests. Perhaps we should let them eat first before we pile into them. Please! Let us show some manners." Virgil then turned to the senators. "You shall have at least fifteen minutes of peace to eat and talk among yourselves." Virgil then turned to face Limbo's inhabitants and guests from Purgatory and gave them a classic "I mean business" look. I don't know what authority Virgil had over Limbo's residents or what he could have done to them, but it was obvious that everyone in Limbo deferred to Virgil sort of the same way that everyone in Wonderland deferred to Caterpillar.

For about the next twenty minutes - none of the inhabitants of Limbo had a watch or any kind of timepiece - the senators ate in peace, interrupted only by polite offers of food or drink by their hosts. Our hosts ate little, but they did seem to have a taste for the rose-petal tea that was at every place setting. When some of the senators started looking at their watches, our hosts took it as their signal that the promised period of no debate was over. This time Plato, our guide, took the lead.

"I have always admired Thomas Jefferson for his optimism and faith in the ability of ordinary people to rule themselves. I guess that I am a bit of a cynic, myself. I have always believed that democratic republics will produce badly governed societies dominated by people who are skilled at psychological manipulation - that is the essence of political campaigns - and little else. Most people simply lack the ability or the inclination to think deeply about political issues. Instead they respond to sound bites and slogans that are easy to understand, but have little to do with the actual issues at hand. A perfect example has been the ability of the Republican Party in the United States to scuttle needed reforms by simply shouting "Big government!" or "Socialism!" whenever someone - including Republicans - proposes a federal government program to address a pressing issue. Government by slogans is a terrible way to run a society. When a country faces as many pressing unmet needs as your United States of today, I must simply ask what the Republican Party supports besides free trade for the corporations and tax cuts for the absurdly rich. The only political program of the Democratic Party seems to be to cower and hide whenever a Republican shouts the same old slogans and sound bites that they've been using since Ronald Reagan got elected in 1980. If the United States were adequately governed, you would have the same universal health insurance program that the Canadians have. You would have European-style unemployment benefits simply to maintain social peace and prop up demand in capitalist economies suffering from a slow collapse of demand for products due to corporations shifting jobs to wherever labor is cheapest. Cheap workers don't buy much of what capitalist corporations produce. Government must pick up the slack, or the entire system will collapse. European goverments know this. In other words, Marx was right about industrial capitalism. Hobbes once proposed that democratic republics cannot work because the demands of competing interest groups will lead to politicians slapping together badly designed compromises to get legislation passed. The lack of any individual sense of responsibility for the quality of legislation will lead to wasteful, inefficient societies that ignore problems and are always doomed to eventual collapse. I believe that Hobbes had a good point here. I do not believe in elections. I know that for all you, that is a shocking statement. Long ago I worked out a system of government by a council of the best minds in a country. The state should select a group of highly intelligent, gifted children and raise them in an atmosphere of austere intellectualism. They would be given the best educations possible, and would be isolated from the lures of consumerism and greed. These specially raised children would become a council of philosophers who would rule the nation according to utilitarian principals - the greatest good for the greatest number. Their primary objective would be to maintain social peace - a balance between the interests of all competing groups. Democratic republics have a tendency to fail as sooner or later the poor gain the upper hand and initiate a civil war when the rich employ various manipulations to retain power in an electoral system. Any system of government which maintains privilege for a small minority is doomed to failure."

The senators were not surprised at Plato's suggestions, as most of them were well-educated. Bernie Sanders raised the obvious objection. "Your system of rule by a council of philosopher kings might be the best possible system, but it is not practical in an age that respects only rule by elected representatives. Can you suggest anything practical for our age?" Plato thought for a moment and replied.

"Marx's dictatorship of the proletariat, in contrast to what most U.S. politicians would have the public believe, was actually a direct democracy. It was a state in which private ownership of the means of production had been abolished, and a legislative council of workers made the decisions. That is, of course, an oversimplification of Marx's theories, but it is a quick summary. A step in that direction would be the elimination of competitive elections, and simply select the ruling legislative body by a random lottery, as Aristotle earlier suggested. The result would be far more representative than the results of any election, seeing as elections are marred by the manipulative machinations of the wealthy in the background. If your legislative bodies were randomly selected, you would have, instead of your councils of millionaires and lawyers, legislative bodies consisting of fast-food workers, teachers, public utility employees, single mothers, and even drug addicts. The results of rule by such people could hardly be worse than what you have now. I assure you that you would have at least a universal health care system and a much higher minimum wage. Not as many wars, either."

Marx was grinning. Marx had a smile as big as old Cheshire Puss back home. "I was right about just about everything. Except this. I thought death was the end. Imagine my surprise." Karl Marx raised his hands to the stars of Purgatory in a gesture of wonder. Bernie Sanders turned to Marx to address a question.

"So you would also support the idea of legislative bodies selected by random lottery?" Marx hesitated only a moment.

"It would seem a reasonable compromise. I do want to point out that the most effective example of Plato's theory of government was Cuba as ruled by Fidel Castro. Castro's government was far from perfect, but it was an example of an attempt at governing by utilitarian principles. History will remember him kindly, even if current commentators do not. Castro was a philosopher king. He was one of us. I look forward to his eventual arrival here in Limbo."

Bernie Sanders turned to the other senators, and they began discussing the idea of selecting representatives in the U.S. through random lottery instead of elections. Virgil approached Alice and beckoned for her to accompany him. I jumped up to tag along. Virgil did not appear to object to my presence. Virgil led Alice to one of the low villas we had seen earlier.

"My home," said Virgil. He led Alice and myself inside to a simply furnished room with a gleaming sword held in a brace on the wall opposite his bed. It reflected starlight from an open window and was identical to Alice's sword. "The angels never took the sword back from me. I was the first human to carry an angel's sword. You have the second angel's sword to be carried by a human. You have done well to get here. You are the only guide besides myself to complete the journey. None of the other guides made it past the City of Dis. If there were justice in the universe, your journey would change history, but it will not. Come with me."

Virgil led us to the center of the villas toward a very large building. Through a window we could see what appeared to be a single candle burning. Virgil led us inside. There was no door. "This is the Light of Human Reason. When you saw it in your dream, it was a roaring flame that reached high into the sky and lit up all of Limbo like the noonday sun in the Sahara desert. The plots that are being made against the senators in your group have turned the Light back into a candle flicker. This is all that is left of your journey. I am so sorry that this has not worked out for you. Do not tell the senators. Their quest is hopeless, as was yours. Still, let them try - if only for the sake of the history books. There is no shame in failure if the quest was justice."

We began walking back toward the tables, and Alice asked a question. "Aristotle mentioned that William Pitt and William Wilberforce were visitors from Purgatory. I thought that inhabitants of Heaven could visit lower levels. We have no visitors from Heaven?"

Virgil smiled. "No human enters Heaven until the Day of Final Judgment. Terrestrial Paradise is the highest level of Purgatory and is a sort of waiting room for purified souls. It was I who left you the angel's sword in that forest outside the City of Dis. The two angels at the Gate gave it to me to carry to you. I am free to roam Hell as I wish. You will also be free to return and roam if you wish. We both have the blessings of Minos, Malacoda, and Rhadamanthus to do so. We are most impressed with your journey."

"Who is this 'we' that you just spoke of?" asked Alice.

"All of us in Limbo. We have been monitoring your progress. I would have come to get you in the sixth circle if Medusa had not. Your Hatter is a most loyal friend. Brave, too. We had not expected so much of him. He surprised us."

Virgil led us back to the tables where the senators were engaged in lively debate with the inhabitants of Limbo. Off in the distance, we saw an inhabitant of Limbo with a bushy moustache approaching us. "Who is that?" asked Alice.

"He is one of us by choice," replied Virgil. "His name is Sam."

End of Chapter 33

Version 3

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. "The Divine Comedy" was written, of course, by Dante.

The excerpt from Franklin D. Roosevelt's "Four Freedoms" speech has been very, very slightly edited to adapt it to the limited formatting capabilities of fanfiction dot net.

Chapter 34: Chapter 34  
Chapter 34: "An Evening with Mark Twain"

Sam, carrying himself with all the pomp of a Catholic priest about to begin a service, asked us to bow our heads.

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle - be Thou near them! With them - in spirit - we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it - for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."

Hatter and I both looked up about halfway through the "prayer." We both knew what we were listening to. Some of the Senators recognized the "prayer," as well.

"Only dead men can tell the truth in your world. Well, I'm dead. I got it about right, didn't I? So what do you lot of fools think you're doing in Iraq - and Afghanistan - besides mostly sending a neverending stream of noncombatants to the gates of Purgatory? Some of you, I've heard, even want to start a third war by invading Iran. If three wars ain't enough for you, there's always another war to be fought on the Korean peninsula. Always got the money for wars, ain't you? Can't afford to keep your own off the streets or care for the sick like the civilized countries of the world do. You make me sick. Most of you are millionaires. Never missed a meal, have ye?"

Sam made a gesture with his hand as if he were poking a cigar into his mouth. For a brief moment, he looked confused as he realized that his hand was empty.

"Damn cigars were the death of me. Wish I had one right now." Sam flumped down in his chair, still looked straight at the Senators.

None of the Senators spoke. By this time they all knew who was in front of them. They were awestruck. All of them. As if meeting Plato and Aristotle had been something lesser that happened every day.

"Do you fools know why money was invented in the first place? It was to make it easier for the powerful to steal from everyone else. Certainly makes collecting taxes easier. In the old days, money was made out of silver and gold, which had intrinsic value. Then paper money was issued which was backed by gold and silver. Then came the day when governments came up with the idea of fiat money. Faith money. It's called fiat money because only mass hallucination holds the value up. Just yank the backing from the money and keep using the same pieces of paper. Money sure looks the same. Only it isn't. The powerful of the world, through the instrument of government, found a way to rob blind all the rubes. They traded pretty, worthless pieces of paper for goods and services. The only thing that gives fiat money value at all is the fact that it can be used to pay taxes. Gotta pay for all those wars somehow, eh?"

The Senators looked at each other wondering if Twain was brilliant, or a senile, old, blabbering ass.

"You fools ever wonder why there seems to be no solution to mass poverty in the world? It's because you insist on basing the entire economy of the world on money - most of which is pure fiction, anyway. You print worthless, pretty pieces of paper and force people into a competitive labor market to get enough of those pretty, worthless pieces of paper to pay for the necessities of life. Have you ever thought about how much it costs to enforce the distribution of goods and services through prices? First you got to have prisons to lock up all the thieves, who are mostly people too poor to get what they need by working for some fatcat. Of course, you can't just throw them into prisons without determining whether or not they're guilty, so next you got to have judges and lawyers. To patrol the streets and discourage people from challenging the great god of prices, you got to have policemen and security guards. Then of course there's insurance companies just waiting to cash in the fears of people. You need locks and keys, and the stores need cashiers and managers and accountants to keep track of all those pretty pieces of paper. You need a place to keep all those pretty pieces of paper, so you have banks. Banks are the real churches of your world, you know. Have you ever added up all the costs of enforcing distribution through the money-based system of prices? Have you ever thought that it might just be cheaper to give people access to the basic necessities of life? No, you've never considered it. You've never considered it because if people didn't have to compete against each other in a dog-eat-dog labor market, the powerful among you would lose your ability to exploit and control ordinary people. Have you never realized what the money system is? It's a hidden form of slavery. What a scam! You tell the slaves they're free and make them pay for their own housing and food. Then you make them go out and find their own slavemasters. Anyone who can't find a slavemaster starves in the street. Great system you've got! If you're one of the priviledged."

The concept of government-issued currency being used to determine who gets what is the great, unconsidered act of faith in the life of just about everyone in the world. Almost no one questions the money system. We are born to it, and blindly accept it as we are introduced to it as children. Even thieves accept it as they usually try to steal money or goods to be traded for money rather than the goods themselves. Money, not Christianity, or Islam, or Buddhism, or any other religion in the world, is the real faith of the people. Hold up a piece of paper money. Here is your God. The Senators looked befuddled.

"The money system is a way of enforcing scarcity. Because things are distributed through a pricing mechanism, the way to get the most is to enforce scarcity to hold up prices. The economic law of supply and demand makes a virtue of scarcity in a world of prices. Scarcity boosts profits. Scarcity increases the power of the supplier. Scarcity is the mechanism through which people are enslaved. There are enough resources in the world to house, feed, and clothe everyone. The only thing preventing this is the pricing mechanism - the idea that everything has to be paid for. Payment is the bottleneck that throttles productivity. Human beings could produce so much more if no one was always sticking a hand out for payment. The money economy has to end. It prevents people from producing all that they can. Imagine how many more books I could have written if I hadn't had to worry about money. Anyone who has read a biography of me knows that I had money problems."

By now the Senators were starting to scratch their heads. Twain was forcing them to think about things that they had blindly accepted on faith all their lives. Being actually forced to think about things that you've never thought about before is a terrible strain. Not being well-versed in economics, my head was starting to hurt, too.

"Your world is full of illusions. One of the worst is the idea that land belongs to the titleholder. There is not a titleholder in the world - with the possible exception of a few Dutch engineers - who has ever produced a single acre of ground. Yet virtually every square inch of land on the globe is claimed by someone. Amazon Indian tribes are driven off of land they have inhabited for nearly all of human history because someone shows up with a title. Do not those Amazon Indian tribes who have always lived in the same areas have the best claim to those lands? The undeniable truth is that the world belongs to us all, and that those who insist on enforcing rights of ownership are perpetrating a fraud upon us all. The best thing to do with these assholes who claim ownership of vast estates for their own personal use is to shoot them. I'm dead and I can say that. So sue me. No one has the right to starve his fellow man so that he can wallow in luxury."

"How many of ya are Catholics? Come on! Raise your hands!"

Sam waited while the Catholics among us timidly raised their hands. None of us knew why he would ask this. Maybe a diatribe against the corruption of the Catholic Church?

"In the Catholic faith, one of the worst things people can do is to commit suicide. All your priests tell people that killing themselves is a one-way ticket to Hell. No excuses! So convenient to tell the sweatshop slaves that they must endure because Hell awaits those who decide to end their suffering. You all know the truth now. There it is behind you! All those magnificent trees! In Purgatory, not Hell! Did you know that the Catholic faith is one of the greatest anticapitalist institutions in the world? Yes, it's true! I was quite stunned when I realized it myself. You see, simply lying down in a ditch and dying of starvation passively because you are too poor to afford the necessities of life is forbidden by Catholic preaching! You are commanded to survive because God wills it! Therefore, if there is no other way to get the basic necessities of life, you are morally obligated to steal them!"

The Senators looked at each other. No one contradicted Twain because we all realized that he was making absolute sense.

"So what do you do if someone is standing in your way to the basic necessities of life? What if they won't get out of the way? Then what? It's the great paradox of Catholic teaching. You are morally obligated to survive. Catholics aren't permitted to lay down and die. Do you kill to survive? Murder or suicide? What do you do?"

Now the Senators started to whisper among themselves. It was obvious that they were baffled.

"It's the great dilemma that your world poses to the poor. In so many places, they are faced with the literal choice of suicide through deprivation, or murder to get what they need. Ever wonder where suicide terrorism came from? The have-nots of the world won't passively starve forever. Someday they'll come for you who are well-fed. So now I ask you a question. What are you all going to do about this when you get back? The greatest of all sins is indifference."

The whispering continued. Twain ignored them and continued with his theme.

"I don't expect you to make your country a humane place overnight. I doubt that you could even if you wanted to. There are, however, a few small positive steps that you could take upon your return to show that your hearts are in the right place. Specifically, you could pass legislation to make certain basic foodstuffs in your country free. Your government would set a slightly-higher-than-market price for certain basic commodity foodstuffs and purchase them from any farmer willing to sell to the government. Most farmers, I assure you, are perfectly willing to sell to the highest bidder. The government would store these foodstuffs in government surplus warehouses throughout the country. All corporate-owned grocery stores would be required to devote at least one percent of their shelf space to these free foodstuffs which would be delivered by government-employed truck drivers at no cost to the grocers. Non-corporate grocery stores such as the small independents and family-owned places would be eligible to participate in this program, but not required to. I think most would want to as free food on their shelves might help to attract customers. As for what those free foodstuffs might be, that would be for you to decide. I would at least advocate including domestically-grown rice and pinto beans on the list. Also wise would be generic vegetable oil, generic orange juice, and generic canned vegetable soup. This program would not be intended to replace food stamps. It would be in addition to food stamps. It would be of benefit to farmers as well as it would provide them with a guaranteed price for some of their product. It is such a small thing to do. No one would be required to stand in line at a food bank anymore. No one would be required to prove his need. The free items would be available to anyone without restriction. This may not sound like much to most of you, but, to homeless people, it would be a godsend. What say you? Is it too much to ask? The government already gives away a lot of food. Is something as small as this doable?"

The senators continued to whisper among themselves, and then, of all people, Senator "Puddle" announced, "I'll sponsor it." Everyone jerked around as if they didn't believe what they were hearing. "I want to make up for all the times I was a jerk," he said. It was like the transformation of Scrooge at the end of "A Christmas Carol." Senator Puddle, like the tin man from the Wizard of Oz, had discovered that he had a heart.

"What do you all consider to be my best book?" asked Twain. He looked around and pointed at the Senator just to his right. One-by-one the Senators gave their opinion of Twain's best book. Most said "Huckleberry Finn" and a few said "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court." Twain put his head down on the table with a great sigh. He declared his belief that "The Prince and the Pauper" was his best book. "I poured my heart and my soul into that book. The amount of research I did to get the atmosphere right was back-breaking. I wanted to prick the consciences of the elite. To show that empathy is the greatest of all virtues. People say that a classic is a book that people praise, but don't read. So it is with my best book."

The Senators looked at each other, and then one of the women senators, Senator Boxer, looked at Twain and said, "You're talking about us, aren't you?"

"Hell, yes I'm talking about you!" thundered Twain. "You're the Princes!" Twain put his chin back down in his hands. He looked exasperated.

At this point, Alice spoke. "Perhaps it is now time for us to make our exit. To return to the world of the living."

"Not yet!" snapped Twain. "There's a place in Limbo that I want you all to see before you leave. Our library."

Twain stood up and began walking off toward the villas of Limbo's village. Alice gestured to everyone to follow. Twain stepped onto a path of flat rocks and led us in a direction that skirted the edge of the village. He didn't talk much, leaving us to marvel at the unearthly beauty of Limbo in spite of all the leafless trees and leafless bushes. The oversized mushrooms, giant flowers towering overhead, and the ghostly, translucent Indian Pipe plants gave me the feeling that I had dropped into some unknown age of a Myst video game. To our left, a brook sparkled in the starlight, its soft sounds of gently gurgling water making me sleepy. Twain continued following the flat stones that did not have any forks in the path, and in about half an hour, we saw in the distance a large, circular white buiding that towered above anything else we had seen in Limbo.

"The Library," said Twain. "Or our university. It is both, really."

Twain pushed open the heavy wooden door - there was no lock - and we all trooped in. Shelves of books completely encircled the first floor in a spokes-of-a-wheel pattern, with a wide open space in the center occupied by carrels and computers. Every shelf was labeled at the end in a dozen languages, with ancient Greek and ancient Latin at the bottom of the list. Every book had a number at the bottom which I recognized as the old Dewey Decimal System. There were eight staircases off the central area running up to the next floor. There were a dozen floors in all. The library was absolutely massive. The book shelves went from floor to ceiling and doubled as support beams. Rolling step ladders were visible in some of the aisles between the shelves. Every other floor had what looked like small classrooms or study rooms along the wall area. Old-fashioned slate chalkboards and full-length pieces of chalk in a tray at the bottom of the board were found in every room. "The pieces of chalk never run out or even wear down," commented Twain.

In the central area of every floor were what looked like the study carrels from any university library. There were also touch-screen computers with gleaming white keyboards attached by a wire. Most of the keyboards that we saw were English "QWERTY" keyboards, but at every computer on a shelf below were piled up keyboards in other languages. French, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, Italian, German, Latin, Greek, etc. I even saw a keyboard with Korean letters. All the major languages were here with the conspicuous absence of Chinese. Chinese symbols had been replaced by Pinyin. In the pile of keyboards at one computer, Twain pulled out a Pinyin keyboard. I thought the touch-screen computers looked suspiciously like old, white iMacs. Hatter peered at the screen of one computer and broke out laughing. Twain asked him what was so funny about the screen, and Hatter answered. "The operating system: it's BeOS!" I had never even heard of it.

"The small rooms that you see along the walls of every other floor are our language classrooms," explained Twain. "Nearly everyone in Limbo speaks at least six languages. We don't really have a lot to do. If you wish to make maximum use of this library, you must learn at least a few foreign languages. I learned Russian myself so that I could read the old Russian classics in their original language. There are translations of just about everything here, but one thing you quickly learn when you a multi-lingual is that the translations are rarely as good as the originals. A favorite activity for the inhabitants of Limbo is simply to read. There are more than a few of us that spend most of their waking hours in this library - especially the ones here who lived lives of crushing poverty. The books are catalogued on the computers. The only programs on the computers are word processing programs and a few classic games, such as chess. I hope you noticed that there are no electrical wires running to each computer. We have a wireless power source from starlight panels on the roof. The computers are powered by the light from the stars. The computers are all connected wirelessly via lights in the ceiling to a main administrative computer administered by the angels that you see here working as library clerks. There aren't very many of them here. It doesn't take many clerks to run a library when no one worries about checking books in and out. Their primary function is simply to add new books to the shelves and to the catalogues on the computers. Some of the new books are mine. Surely, you don't think I gave up writing just because I died!"

"A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court is a book that I was never satisfied with, and had wanted to rewrite someday. There were so many things that I left out of the book for the sake of brevity and keeping the book to a publishable length. All those things that I left out kept nagging at me. Unfortunately, I did not have access to sufficient sources to begin the full-length version that I had always wanted to write. I had quipped that to do the book justice, I would need an entire library for research and a pen warmed up in Hell! Then the cigars got me. When I got here, Plato found me in the line for entrance to Purgatory. He waited until I was first in line and then made his request to the two angels at the gate. The angels told me that I was free to get back in line for entrance to Purgatory whenever I wished. I was also free to walk off into Limbo with Plato. I have been here ever since. The first thing in Limbo that Plato showed me was the Library. He told me that the Library that I needed for my full-length version of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court was now at my disposal. He also told me that a friend of his was coming with a gift for me."

"When I saw Medusa for the first time, I freaked. Plato laughed at me and asked me what was my worry since I was already dead! Medusa was not what I expected her to be. She was a nightmarish bag of bones - you've all seen her, haven't you? - yet her bony face was weirdly beautiful. She held out a pen to me. A pen warmed up in Hell. She told me that I now had all I needed for my rewrite. Wouldn't you know it? The pen she gave me never runs out of ink!"

Twain led us back down the stairs to the sixth floor to a carrel located almost dead center of the floor. He opened a drawer of a small wooden chest of drawers next to the carrel and pulled out a hand-written manuscript.

"This is the final hand-written version of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court the way I had meant to write it. Take it with you and dump it on the kitchen table of whichever of my descendents is most in need and most deserving. I trust your judgment. I will hold you all no longer."

Twain gave the manuscript to Alice and backed away. He knew the routine. Alice pulled out one of her bongs and filled it with Caterpillar's smoke portal powder. A gentler trip than a mental portal. A few puffs and she blew. The hazy swirl of colors rotated before us, and Alice ushered the senators through, counting them off one-by-one as they stepped through. The poor senators thought they were going home, but Alice had other plans.

End of Chapter 34

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. "The Divine Comedy" by Dante is in the public domain. Mark Twain's "War Prayer" appears word-for-word just as he wrote it somewhere around 1904-05.

Chapter 35: Chapter 35  
Chapter 35: "Lost Horizon"

After the senators had all passed through the portal, Alice sent me through next. There was a slight delay, and then Hatter came through clutching Twain's manuscript. He headed straight for his castle to put the manuscript into a safe place. Alice came through last. Alice had set us down in Wonderland near the "Rabbit Hole" so that we would be next to the sign with the "Three Laws of Wonderland."

Alice gestured to the senators to follow her and walked us over to the faded old wooden sign.

THE THREE LAWS OF WONDERLAND

SHARE WHAT YOU HAVE

TAKE WHAT YOU NEED

BE KIND

That was it. That was the sum of all our laws in Wonderland. The senators stared in astonishment. Such simplicity to the lawyers among them was beyond comprehension. A rustle in a nearby set of bushes disturbed the senators and set a ripple of fear loose among them. I, myself, of course, had no fear. I knew it was just Cheshire making his grand entrance.

First the grin, then the tail, and then the rest. Cheshire sauntered among the senators and rubbed against their legs as they stood stock still paralyzed with fright. After Cheshire had rubbed the legs of nearly every senator - I noticed he took a little extra time with the women - he finally spoke.

"Well, well, gentlemen. Not a word of greeting. What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" I groaned. I couldn't help it. Cheshire had used that joke at least a thousand times. To the senators, however, it was fresh. I introduced Cheshire and assured the senators that he would not eat them. I suppose to those who were unfamiliar with Cheshire, that great mouthful of shark-like teeth would be pretty scary. They thought that Cheshire talking was some sort of ventriloquist trick. That Sean Connery voice of his made convincing the senators that it really was a cat talking all the more difficult. Cheshire began explaining the three laws of Wonderland.

"We don't have money or private ownership of anything except personal articles in Wonderland. Because we share almost everything, the concept of theft barely exists. Also, because we share almost everything, the endless conflict between people that exists in the world above, because they compete against each other for everything, does not occur here. No one here is deprived of what they need. You would find that sharing would solve most of your world's problems."

A matronly-looking woman senator stared at Cheshire. "No money? Really?"

"That's right. No money. No theft. No police. No lawyers. No prisons. No locks. No insurance companies. No security guards. No military. No corporations. No poverty. No want. This place may look primitive to you, but compared to the conflict-ridden world above, it is paradise."

"When was that sign posted?" asked Senator Kerry.

"That sign was posted about thirty years ago at the end of Wonderland's Civil War. We overthrew our tyrannical Queen of Hearts and Red Queen who together claimed ownership of just about everything in Wonderland. Everyone had to work for them to earn money to purchase basic necessities. The two Queens set wages very low and prices very high. Everyone worked like slaves for just the basic necessities. This was not a happy place. The two Queens had a monster called the Jabberwock to enforce their will and an army of Card Guards at their disposal. A wondrous creature of Wonderland called Gryphon, a combination of an eagle and a lion, started a rebellion. The Mock Turtle joined him, then Caterpillar, then Mr. White, then me, then all the inhabitants of Pale Realm, and finally an underground army of gnomes. Alice dropped down the Rabbit Hole right in the middle of our civil war. She was led by Mr. White to Caterpillar and joined us. She was eighteen years old then and had just escaped from an insane asylum. She had no love of the world above. She preferred our civil war. When the war was over and the two tyrants had been killed, it was Alice who suggested abolishing money in Wonderland. The Three Laws of Wonderland were her idea."

"How on earth did she convince everyone to go along with such an idea?" asked our dear Senator Puddle. Cheshire was ready with his answer.

"Alice realized that if all of us continued in the roles we had played before the civil war and shared our talents and what we produced with everyone else in Wonderland, there would be no shortages of anything for anybody. She pointed out that Wonderland's money was a pure abstraction created by the two Queens for the purpose of controlling everyone else. She asked why we needed money to exchange goods and services with each other. Why not just share? Caterpillar at first thought that she was crazy, but we all discussed her ideas and realized that they made at least as much sense, if not more sense, than the system of distribution by prices and money from before. Alice had a question that is now famous in Wonderland: 'Why must there be a price on everything?' Caterpillar, at that point, started to believe that Alice might be a genius in spite of her poor education. In the end, we abolished money just as Alice suggested. Look around you as you travel about Wonderland. You will not see here the kind of unhappiness and misery that is so abundant in your world."

"I would like to take you to our Gryphon Memorial," said Alice. "To save time, I'll open a portal. It is important that you do not go wandering off in Wonderland Woods as there are Killer Mushrooms in the woods. You will recognize them by their sheer size. They are enormous compared to what exist in the world above. Think of the Killer Mushrooms as Venus Flytraps in disguise. They are deadly. Keep your distance. Cheshire, I need you to visit Pale Realm and arrange with the White King overnight lodging for our guests. There are seventy of them. Also tell him that we will be eating dinner at Hatter's outdoor dining area. He doesn't have to worry about dinner." Cheshire did his slow disappearing act and went off to make arrangements with the White King. I wondered if Hatter knew that he would be hosting dinner.

Off through the portal, and we arrived in a clearing in Wonderland Woods where the memorial was. The statue and plaque stood in the middle of a grassy meadow surrounded by woodland on all sides. There were several flat-stone paths leading in various directions. One led to the Gnome Village, another to Pandemonium, another to Hatter's Castle, and yet another to Pale Realm. There were also a few flat-stone paths nearly grown over by grasses from lack of use. Two of them led to Red Realm and Queensland, both areas ruins. A plaque with the statue explained the events of how Gryphon was killed fighting the Jabberwock. The plaque also explained Wonderland's big holiday usually known as "Abolition Day." That was the day that money was abolished in Wonderland. It was also the day that Wonderland was declared a commune. In Pale Realm, which is an absolute monarchy governed by the White King, the holiday is known as Commune Day. Pale Realm honors the abolition of money in spite of not being considered officially a part of Wonderland. The plaque didn't say who actually killed the Jabberwock, but after what the Senators had seen in the Sixth Circle, I think they all knew instinctively who had finally gotten the monster out of the way. Cheshire spared Alice the embarrassment of explaining to the Senators the course of the civil war after Gryphon had been killed. Everyone in Wonderland knew the story. The Senators didn't need to know that Alice had originally been regarded a joke for the role she had played in the Civil War. Up until the point that Gryphon had been killed, Alice was best known for straggling back into Gnome Village with half her clothes and her eyebrows burnt off from yet another accident with the jackbomb. It was only after Gryphon had been killed that she became the iconic figure of Wonderland who had led an army of gnomes and chess pieces into the Red Queen's castle in Queensland. I noticed that Alice did not count heads this time.

"Let's head for Gnome Village," said Alice. "A word of warning: never call the Gnomes 'Munchkins' because they will throw a bucket of goat milk on you if you do." We walked down the flat-stone path toward Gnome Village with Alice pointing out various curiosities along the path, including the one small patch of Killer Mushrooms located near the Gnome Village. There was a fence around it with grisly-looking pictographic signs to keep out gnome children. Cheshire said his good-byes to everyone and set off for Pale Realm to arrange overnight lodgings for everyone.

When the Senators arrived in Gnome Village, there was a lot of whispering that the village looked like something out of the old "Wizard of Oz" movie with Judy Garland. Alice took them straight to the Gnome Bar and joined the Gnome attendant behind the counter to help pour brandy for the seventy Senators. Everybody got a shot of Walnut Brandy for the first round and a shot of Cherry Brandy for the second. Senator Puddle informed Alice that Wonderland needed to bottle some of the brandy for sale in the world above. Alice kept it quiet that we did indeed sell some of our brandy in the world uptop via a handful of Korean groceries in Los Angeles. The Senators didn't need to know this. We sell some of the brandy to the Koreans as a cash source for the occasions when we need to buy stuff in the world above. There are certain basic kitchen items that we don't produce and purchase in the world above. Baking powder, baking soda, salt, pepper, and yeast are a few of the items. Believe it or not, Alice prefers to pay rather than steal when possible. The brandy is Wonderland's only source of cash for the world above, and sometimes it's simply impossible to pay. A tour of any buildings in Gnome Village was, of course, out of the question because of the low ceilings. Alice, at five feet tall, was just short enough to walk around inside Gnome buildings without bending over. With the Senators now all just a wee bit tipsy, we headed for Pandemonium. Alice wanted to show the Senators our home, at least from the outside. The house was way too small to have all seventy of them inside at once, so Alice decided after we got there to forgo the intended house tour. I was quietly grateful for that as I did not want anyone to see the nude painting of Alice that I had hanging up in my bedroom. Yeah, that painting - the one that Mr. White painted after Alice's encounter with Hatter in the mushroom patch. I had heard rumors that Hatter had a third copy of the painting. If so, I wondered where he had it.

Our next stop was Hatter's outdoor dining areas. The path between Pandemonium and Hatter's Castle had large, heavily-flowered meadows, and, as we walked, the Senators were fascinated at being enveloped in clouds of butterflies. The butterflies were abundant throughout Wonderland, but in these meadows, the butterflies were so numerous that they would light on your clothes as you walked through. Alice explained as we walked that butterflies were the only insects in Wonderland and did most of the pollination. Our constant, slight breeze did the rest.

When we arrived at Hatter's Castle, he was in a bit of a panic over dinner and asked Alice how she expected him to arrange dinner for seventy people on such short notice. He'd already made tea for the large group and had the tables set, but dinner hadn't even been started. "Perhaps you were planning to steal three dozen frozen pizzas from the local Cheap-Mart?" he quipped. Alice told him to relax and prepare every pan he had for sauteeing. "Three Killer Mushrooms coming through a portal right into your kitchen," said Alice. "Yes I'll make sure they're completely dead before I send them." And off she went to Wonderland Woods for some mushroom slaying while Hatter stewed in his kitchen. It took about ten minutes, and Alice had chopped them in half before she dropped them into a portal into Hatter's kitchen. Hatter and I sliced furiously and dropped the mushroom bits into the pans, and then Hatter left me to attend the cooking for a moment while he went out to announce to the Senators that dinner, provided by "Buffy the Mushroom Slayer," would be arriving shortly. Alice arrived in the kitchen without her Angel's Sword. She had dropped it off in her bedroom and chuckled that it dropped killer mushrooms with a single toss.

Hatter hurriedly ferried plates full of steaming mushrooms on mobile carts back and forth from his kitchen, and Alice and I placed plate after plate in front of the Senators. Several of the Senators suddenly noticed as Alice placed the plates in front of them that her outfit resembled the typical waitress uniform throughout the U.S. They had just noticed? Didn't these geezers watch "Alice" on TV? The plates all placed, Hatter, Alice, and I all sat down with a sense of relief. I was overjoyed to be off my feet.

Dinner was a noisy affair with the Senators talking among themselves about what they had seen both in Hell and in Wonderland. They still hadn't apparently grasped the idea that there was no money in Wonderland because I heard a few worrying about possibly being presented with a bill. Hatter stood up, dinged on a teapot - what else? - and reminded everyone that there was no money in Wonderland and no such thing as prices. "Everything is free," said Hatter. "Even if Wonderland did have money, you still wouldn't have to pay as you are guests. So stop worrying." Then Hatter brought out the entire contents of his liquor cabinet - six bottles of Wonderland's elderberry wine and about a dozen bottles of brandy - and placed them on the table. I thought it was a terrible idea to give them liquor before his inevitable castle tour, but later, when I spied a certain painting on the wall in Hatter's library, I was grateful that everyone was too drunk to notice - except for one senator.

Hatter delighted in taking everyone on a grand tour, and his castle was quite spacious enough to accommodate a herd of senators tromping through as one big mass. First was his comfortable living room with one of only three TVs in all of Wonderland. Hatter had run an enormous aerial up through the center of a tall, dead oak tree uptop in order to receive stations without the risk of Wonderland being discovered. The other TVs, one in the Gnome Library and one in the Gnome Village Bar, were also hooked up to Hatter's aerial. With Alice classified as a terrorist, we had stopped poaching on the Asylum's cable for TV as a security precaution. Ditto for internet. Alice went uptop and logged on to open wireless networks for internet access. Hatter preferred to haunt university libraries and patch his laptop into the university network with an ethernet cable.

Hatter led everyone to his large, well-stocked kitchen which was still a mess, and then led everyone up the grand staircase to his second floor which had at least a dozen bedrooms, all but one of them unused. The third floor held Hatter's scientific laboratories, and the fourth floor had Hatter's library and study. The walls had endless bookcases full of scientific and engineering books interspersed by old European paintings, many of them nudes. My heart skipped a beat when I realized that one of the nudes was of Alice in all of her Rubinesque glory when she had been a size sixteen for a period of a few months. Everyone trooped around the library in a circle and walked right by the nude painting of Alice without a word. Suddenly I was grateful that everyone was a bit tipsy. Hatter had successfully hidden a nude of Alice in plain sight.

As Hatter led everyone up the stair to his fifth floor which was a sort of giant supply room, Senator Kennedy hung back and whispered to Alice when everyone except me had ascended the stairs. "That was you in one of the nudes, wasn't it?" he asked.

Alice did not blush at all. I sure would have. "Yes, it was," she replied. "I got kind of big for awhile. It was the only time in my life that I felt I had a body worth painting."

Senator Kennedy smiled in amusement and ascended the stairway. I heaved a sigh of relief. The supply area of the fifth floor was of little interest. Hatter took everyone to the area where he refurbished junk computers and loaded them with his own custom version of Linux. It was basically Debian with all sorts of non-free add-ons and a few of Hatter's own custom programs, including a stealth program for logging onto wireless networks while using another computer on the network as a proxy. How Hatter pulled that off, I don't know. I'm not a supergeek. Hatter informed the senators that everyone in Wonderland, except Alice, had one of his refurbished computers running Linux. He explained that the computers were all connected to each other in a local network, but had no access to the internet. We exchanged messages by dropping documents into each other's public drop box. There were no wireless networks in range of Wonderland for piggybacking, either. Hatter mentioned that Alice had the only mac in Wonderland - a g4 iBook. Hatter's next stop was his utility plants scattered among various buildings near his castle. As we walked by the kitchens next to his living room, we noticed several gnome women busily cleaning up the mess and running plates and silverware through a dishwasher. Hatter had the most modern home in Wonderland.

Outside and up a heavily wooded hillside were Hatter's utility plants. The water treatment plants were old-fashioned slow-sand filters stretching out over a level spot on the hill. "We don't have access to all the chemicals that are used in modern methods of water treatment. We do add a tiny amount of chlorine via tablets to the filtered water just before it enters the distribution pipes." Hatter then led us over to the electric plant which distributed power garnered from Pale Realm's ubiquitous water wheels. Large cables on large poles identical to those in the world uptop carried power to Gnome Village, Pandemonium, and Hatter's own castle. "I'll spare you a tour of our primitive wastewater treatment facilities," said Hatter. "It's mostly a series of ponds. We use duckweed to treat the wastes."

Alice stepped in front of us all and informed us that we would be staying overnight in Pale Realm. Hatter took his leave of us as he was still banned from entering Pale Realm. Instead of opening a portal, Alice had us walk. The shortest way to Pale Realm was through the ruins of the nearby Red Realm. As we walked through on a restored walkway, the Senators craned their necks staring at the ruins all around them. Alice did not give any history on the way, and, as everyone was tired, the ruins quietly spoke for themselves.

About an hour later we caught our first glimpse of Pale Realm in the twilight. The reaction of the Senators was universal: awestruck disbelief. The polished marble block of all the buildings in Pale Realm gave off a Disneyesque glow in the fading light. Everything was in shades of white and gray with only the pale blue of translucent water filling Pale Realm's canals providing any touch of color. Waterwheels everywhere churned providing electric power to all of Wonderland. The translucent blue water in the canals flowed to Hatter's water treatment plants that were located between his castle and Pale Realm. Those plants provided water for all the rest of Wonderland. All of the water in Pale Realm came straight from the spring that filled the Realm's canals. It was not treated - it didn't need it - and ran nearly ice cold from brightly polished, yet antique-looking taps. The White King greeted us all in Pale Realm's main square, and led us toward guest rooms in the largest castle located off the main square. The inside lobby area was like stepping into France from the 1700s. Even though I had already seen Pale Realm several times before, I'm sure that I was as wide-eyed as the Senators as I looked around. There were prints of paintings by old European masters all over the walls. I noticed several prints of paintings by Goya, including the famous "Saturn Devouring His Son." There were a few prints of bird paintings by Audubon, and modern wildlife prints by Daniel Smith. Filling the lobby was furniture in classic Louis XIV style. I had always wondered just how the White King had gotten all this stuff, but I had always been too timid to ask. The childhood rule of "Never insult your host" still held my tongue.

The White King led us all up a marble staircase with more classic paintings on the wall. Some of them were nudes by Rubens. I noticed Senator Kennedy lingering a bit in front of those. No nudes of Alice mixed in, thankfully. The White King led us down the corridors of the second floor pairing off two Senators of the same sex in each room. There was a brief fuss as no male senator was willing to share a room with a certain senator who shall remain unnamed. Alice and I ended up sharing a room at the far end of the hallway. The White King must have prepared that room especially for Alice. There were bowls of fruit everywhere in the room and bars of chocolate - Valrhona - stacked up on the nightstand. All Alice wanted to do was sleep, and who could blame her.

It was my first night in one of the White King's guest rooms, and I was astounded at the luxury and antiquated feel of everything in the room. While Alice slept, I looked around. The bed had a canopy with heavy curtains. Even heavier curtains framed the two windows in the room. There was a large vanity with an antique mirror in the room. There were two chests of drawers, and a bookcase filled with old classics. The floor was covered by an enormous Persian rug with a floral design. There was a piano and stool along the wall opposite the beds. The walls were marble the same as everywhere else in the castle. Two rather dim wall lamps were the only light sources in the room. There was a small bathroom and a large closet to the right of the doorway. All-in-all, this was a level of luxury that I could never have afforded in the world above. Here it was all free. I had no mirror in my bedroom back in Pandemonium. I took off my dress, looked in the mirror on the vanity, and started to think. Bad idea. "I hate my boobs. I'm five foot two and I have D-cups. Alice loves them, but I think they make me look fat. The damn things wobble. They stick out. They get in the way. I wish I had the more modest pair of B-cups that Alice usually has. B-cups don't wobble. B-cups don't sag. B-cups don't turn into granny boobs when you get older. I know I'm not fat. I'm a perfectly reasonable size 8. Why can't I ever be comfortable with my own body like Alice usually is. She's actually satisfied with her looks most of the time. She can look over her shoulder, see her ass sticking out, and smile at the jiggling when she pokes it. I am envious. I am envious of her self-acceptance." I crawled into bed with Alice carefully so as not to wake her, and was soon asleep myself. I, however, probably did not have that serene look that Alice has when she's sleeping.

A knock on the door disturbed us, and I got up to see who it was. One of the White King's castle servants stood in front of us with a laundry bag with the number of our room door on it. "You can have your dresses and underthings washed overnight if you want. There are pajamas and bathrobes in the chests of drawers you can wear while your clothes are being washed." I had the servant wait a moment while Alice and I both stripped and switched to pajamas. We filled the laundry bag and crawled back into bed. It was seven o'clock in the morning according to a clock high on the wall when we awoke. A laundry bag with our clean clothes was hanging on the doorknob along with a note that breakfast was at eight o'clock in the third floor dining hall. When Alice took off her pajamas to put her freshly laundered clothes on, I was startled that she seemed a little, ummm..., shriveled. Alice put her bra on and was practically swimming in it. Her dress hung on her as if she were a coat rack. Alice took one look in the mirror and tried to make light of it. "I sure don't recommend a whole roomful of rage potion as a way to lose weight." She opened a portal to her bedroom in Pandemonium and was soon back wearing an A-cup bra and an old size ten dress that she had dug out of a storage trunk. She had dropped about one and a half dress sizes since the accident in the weapons locker which was only around three days ago. She looked ruefully at her nearly nonexistant chest in the mirror on the vanity. "I'd rather have my fat ass and B-cups back," she laughed. Alice stuffed all the bars of Valrhona into her apron and we headed up to the third floor for breakfast.

The third floor had Pale Realm's communal kitchen where everybody, including the King and Queen, ate. There were long, heavy wood tables lined up in rows with plenty of space between them. High-backed, luxuriously ornate chairs were lined up on both sides of the long tables. There was plenty of space in the middle of the table for platters. At breakfast, however, that space went unused. Everyone got a plateful of scrambled eggs, cornbread, and a peeled banana with both ends cut off. I stared at the banana. I had never seen a banana in Wonderland. We all had a small glass of cloudy, unfiltered apple cider to drink. It had a sharp tang to it and was less sweet than any apple cider I had tasted in the world above. It turned out that Pale Realm was not all buildings and marble-tiled squares after all. Between the wall of Wonderland and Pale Realm's buildings were corn fields, orchards, chicken coops, and greenhouses full of plants of every type. Pale Realm, with fewer than 100 inhabitants, produced more food than Gnome Village. The white chess pieces took a few tables to themselves and did not disturb us. The King and Queen sat with them and were gracious hosts to their subjects, treating them as equals. I peered over to the tables with the white chess pieces and scanned them, hoping to see one white chess piece in particular. He was there. The White Knight - there was only one left - looking very much like what I had seen in the Mirror of Souls when Alice stood in front of it. It was only after the figure turned and charged at a windmill that I realized that the figure was Don Quixote. A fitting symbol for Alice's soul - a dreamy romantic who believed that one person could change the world. I had given up on the world above long before Alice found me.

The White King left us all to chatter for about half an hour after breakfast was over and had his servants keep us well-supplied with iced tea. When the chatter started to die down, he announced that he wanted to invite us to tour Pale Realm's newest addition: a massive library which occupied floors five through eight of his castle. I blinked. I knew that the White King's castle only had four floors. It had always had only four floors. Nevertheless, the White King led us up a stairway that did not stop at the doorway to the fourth floor, which I knew to be mainly storage. We continued up the stairway, and the King threw open the door to the fifth floor.

Along the walls on both sides inside the door were old-fashioned card catalogues. I hadn't seen card catalogues in at least a decade. The library itself was laid out like the one we saw in Limbo: shelves completely encircled the first floor in a spokes-of-a-wheel pattern. In the center and in vacant spots along the walls were utilitarian wooden tables and chairs. Nothing fancy. A bit out-of-character for Pale Realm. There were genuine slate chalkboards on the walls where tables and chairs were positioned. Actual slate? Even in childhood my schools had those awful green painted chalkboards where the chalk just smeared when you tried to erase it. Every stack had a plate on its end listing the Dewey Decimal System numbers contained on the shelf. We traveled up the stairs to the other three floors of the library and they were all the same. Unlike the library in Limbo, this library had no computers. It seemed a bit sterile with its off-white walls and modern floor-to-ceiling metal shelves. It was the books themselves that gave the place its charm. Every book was an old-fashioned hardback with a cloth binding, or, occasionally, a leather binding. Up on the highest floor of the library was a section of folio art books. Nearly every painter you could think of - including oriental ones - was here. This library dwarfed the small community library in Gnome Village. It was a pity that it was located so far from where most people in Wonderland lived, but there really was no other place for such a library. Rhadamanthus had chosen well in where to locate his gift to Alice.

The tour of the library ended, Alice announced that our first destination was the open-air markets in Gnome Village. Alice left leading everyone on a walk to the village to me while she left to take care of her normal first task of a day: slaughtering two killer mushrooms and delivering them to the open-air market. She wanted to have the task finished before the senators arrived, so she left it to the senators to get there the old-fashioned way. It's not exactly a short walk all the way from Pale Realm to Gnome Village, so I reminded everyone to use the bathroom before we left unless they preferred to take a leak in the woods like Alice.

Alice also mentioned a "cleanup" task on the floor of the U.S. Senate. She promised to use the looking glass for safety. The portal? Surely it was gone by now. Alice's portals don't last forever. Alice didn't specify, and I didn't press the issue. I suspect Alice also returned to the Sixth Circle to retrieve her puzzle box weapon because I saw it in her weapons locker the next time I entered a few weeks later.

It was a brisk walk of around an hour before we arrived in Gnome Village. Alice was sitting at the Village Bar guzzling iced tea waiting for us. The two killer mushrooms were laid out and chopped up in the stall waiting to be scooped up. The senators wandered around watching the gnomes and a few servants from Pale Realm scoop up groceries and drop them into cloth bags which they carried around in two-wheeled grocery carts. Some of the groceries were picked up by gnomes for Hatter while on their way to work in his utility plants. The lack of any exchange of cash or goods in the form of bartering was a source of amazement to the senators. The idea that people would simply carry out their duties for the benefit of their neighbors in one grand scheme of sharing was a negation of everything they had ever believed about human nature. One wonders if they were aware of the ethic of sharing in early hunter-gatherer societies. Wonderland was a modern hunter-gatherer society with limited agriculture. The extraordinary selfishness of modern societies coincided with the invention of the corporation. There was selfishness before that, certainly, but the rise of a super-wealthy class who enjoyed riches beyond those of any medieval king was relatively recent. Wonderland had resurrected the ethics of ancient man.

The senators joined Alice at the Village Bar and soon everyone was guzzling iced tea. Many of the senators were a bit dismayed at the lack of coffee. I informed them that there was normally not a cup of coffee to be had in all of Wonderland, although Alice did occasionally steal a couple of fifty-pound sacks of coffee beans from corporate warehouses for the White King and Hatter. While we were busy drowning our bladders in tea, Bill McGill wandered up dressed in his traditional white leisure suit befitting his status as the boss of Wonderland's only brewery.

"Call me Larry," he said, shaking hands with the senators as if he were campaigning for office. "I run the brewery where we make all the brandy and wine in Wonderland. We've got walnut brandy, cherry brandy, persimmon brandy, elderberry brandy, and, of course, elderberry wine for the lifted pinky crowd." The senators stared wordless at the sight of a talking three-foot-tall chameleon in a white leisure suit. "We've also got Alice's unique period brandy. Guaranteed to render any woman suffering from that time of the month completely insensate. Works on men, too. I've heard rumors it'll make ya grow a whopping big pair of tits, so I don't touch it. Doesn't seem to work on Alice, though." All the senators started staring at my chest out of the corner of their eyes. I wanted to slap Bill senseless. Bill saw me sitting on a stool and suddenly jerked his head. It was obvious he didn't know I was there. Bill and I don't really like each other. I think he's a jerk. He thinks I'm uptight and touchy. Just as well that I don't work at the brewery any more. The water plant has been far more peaceful.

"Follow me and I'll give you a tour!" Bill marched off toward the brewery and Alice nodded to the senators to follow him. Alice told me to stay with the senators as she had to gather the food for everyone's lunch which was to be at the Village Bar. "Take your time on the brewery tour, and maybe give them a tour of our house as well. Just make sure you shut your bedroom door." Alice didn't have to say why she wanted my bedroom door closed. Alice took off for Wonderland Woods for some more mushroom slaying, and I had everyone follow Bill to the brewery. Didn't have any trouble at all getting them up off their asses. The thought of free brandy got them all moving. Bill McGill looked back at the senators, and I could tell that he was thinking he'd better have plenty of elderberry wine available. For the raised-pinky crowd.

The tour of the brewery didn't take long as it didn't have all that much machinery. Bill played bartender at the brewery's small collection of outdoor picnic tables, and the senators were apparently all in the mood to get thoroughly sloshed. We ran out of elderberry wine. I took the senators on a leisurely tour of the house in Pandemonium just to kill time until lunch. The senators were shocked that our shower room was an outdoor stall with a showerhead rigged up to a hose bracketed to the wood. It looked like an outhouse from the outside. To the senators, Alice and I lived under unimaginably primitive conditions. I was more inclined to believe that they had become accustomed to living under unimaginably luxurious conditions. The luxury of Pale Realm was routine for them. America's representatives of the people were used to living like royalty. I did remember to shut my bedroom door.

Still short of eleven o'clock, I had run out of things to do with the senators, and started them back on the way to the Gnome Village bar for lunch. To drag things out, I distracted them with a commentary on some of the native plants of Wonderland. We have quite a variety of wildflowers. I also showed them some of Mr. White's vegetable gardens. Senator Sanders showed an unusual interest in those. We arrived back at the Gnome Village bar a few minutes short of eleven. Alice and some gnomes were still busy preparing lunch. More sauteed killer mushrooms. Alice apologized for the lack of variety, and explained that it was the only food type plentiful enough in Wonderland to feed all of us.

Back in the kitchen, Alice whispered to me. "Only one more meal in Wonderland. These guys are eating us out of house and home. They won't be staying overnight. You don't have to worry about that." Hatter wandered in to the bar and approached Alice.

"I had to do some asking around to find you all. Would you believe that Samuel Clemens has no living descendents? Three of his children died before marrying. The one who did marry had one daughter who died without ever having children. I'm surprised that Sam didn't already know that. Now I have the dilemma of not knowing what to do with his manuscript. I made the mistake of contacting the Mark Twain Literary Preservation Society, and now they are insisting that I hand the manuscript over to them for publishing. They claim ownership. Fortunately, I had brought with me only digital scans of the first chapter. They grabbed that from me. I suspect that lawsuits are already being filed. I don't think that this is what Sam wanted. The children in the Gnome school are all busy typing out the chapters to the novel in the computer room. When the kids are finished, I'll go uptop to a public library computer and upload the book to a wordpress blog. Once the peer-to-peer networks get hold of it, the courts will be unable to suppress its distribution. Since he has no more descendents to take care of, I think this is what Sam would have wanted."

I couldn't have been more proud of Hatter. He had in his possession something almost priceless, and he decided to give it away for free. I think Sam would have been proud of him, too. If there's one thing I remember about Sam, it was his disdain for publishers who milked their writers for every penny of profit. Some things are too precious to be sold for a price.

The gnome woman in the kitchen switched on the TV and Alice stared at it for a moment. We had already cut off Wonderland's tap-in to the Asylum's cable for internet service for security reasons. "The TV antenna uptop has got to go," whispered Alice. "When we've got the Senators out of here, I'll get Hatter to dispose of the antenna and wiring." Alice finished up in the kitchen with the gnome attendant and we three began serving lunch to the senators. There was just enough space at the picnic tables for everyone. Needless to say, one senator butt took up as much space as two gnome butts.

The gnome attendant switched the station to a news station which had a reporter doing a live interview with President Bush in front of the White House. When Alice realized that the news feed was a live image, she jumped up and stood directly in front of the TV with her nose practically pressed to it. I didn't realize at that moment what she was looking for. Alice disappeared in a blinding white flash. The TV news feed showed an identical blinding white flash in front of President Bush. Another white flash and Alice was back. President George W. Bush lay on the ground twitching like a marionnette on the end of strings.

End of Chapter 35

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. "The Divine Comedy" by Dante is in the public domain. The "Mark Twain Literary Preservation Society" is a fictional creation by the author. The title of this chapter comes from James Hilton's tale of Shangri-La. If only such a place were real!

I shouldn't have to say this, but, given the political climate in the U.S., it is a necessity. This is a work of fiction. Of fantasy. It is not real. It does not advocate violence against anyone. This is alternate universe historical fiction, and is protected by the first amendment to the U.S. Constitution:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

I wish I hadn't had to say the above, but I did.

Version 4

Chapter 36: Chapter 36  
Chapter 36: "The Princess of Thieves"

I have to give Minos credit for putting on a good show. After the worm crawled out through the hole where the sternum had been and regained its original size and form, Minos waited about two or three seconds, for dramatic effect I suppose, and then thrust some of his tails up through the ground, wrapped them around the demon, and yanked him underground in a great cloud of dirt. The crowd standing around on the walkways and grass gaped open-mouthed at what they had just seen. I wondered how the Christian fundamentalists would react to seeing a demon crawl out of their hero.

Government security agencies quickly released greatly slowed-down videos of the flash that had occurred in front of President George W. Bush, and they only thing that they were able to discover was that there had been two back-to-back flashes of light instead of one. It had been a perfectly clear day with blue sky, slight breeze, and not a cloud anywhere to be seen. The theory was that the double flash had been a freak bolt of lightning. Right-wing news pundits went crazy with "wrath of God" theories that something George W. Bush had done had greatly displeased the Almighty. The most common theory was that abortion was still legal. Nobody mentioned the Iraq War, Hurricane Katrina, or indifference to the poor. What had Alice been looking for on the TV screen? The telltale sliver of golden illumination right at the location of the breastbone. When Alice saw it, the demon's "vacation" was over.

From that moment on, the political groupings known as the Christian Right withdrew from politics. Their paranoia and distrust was so great that they believed all politicians were corrupted and unreliable. The Republicans suffered a slight downtick in support, but not enough really to change the balance between Republicans and Democrats in general. In the end, it was revealed that the only thing remarkable about the Christian Right was how little influence they had over the political system in general. In the future, it was revealed that the real source of influence over both political parties was corporate interests.

That afternoon, Alice visited homeless encampments located all over the United States - seventy of them. The significance of the number did not register on me at the time. Hatter entertained the Senators with a tour of parts of Wonderland that they had not seen, including the ruins of Queensland. Yes, he went heavily armed. Good thing, too - they were attacked by a group of five boojums. Hatter said he knew that there were still one or two floating around Queensland, but he was flabbergasted to encounter five. Maybe that was the last of them. I hope. The gnome ladies and I prepared the Senators' last meal in Wonderland: roast goat and potatoes. Rice and mushrooms for Alice and me.

Alice and Hatter returned to Gnome Village both at about the same time, and both helped out setting up the tables near the Gnome Bar. Several bottles of walnut brandy graced each of the tables in addition to the roast goat and potatoes. The dinner was a noisy affair with Suzi Quatro blaring from the bar's stereo system while the Senators engaged in noisy speculation over what they would do when they got back to the Senate. Poor dears didn't know that they were not going directly home.

When the Senators were properly liquored, Alice broke the news of where they were going next to them. "I spent the afternoon visiting seventy homeless encampments to prepare them for your arrival. I only had about three minutes with each group. The people in those encampments are expecting you to stay for three days. I have informed them that you will be arriving without your wallets, purses, or anything you normally carry in your pockets. This is for your protection. I'm sure you all know that people get killed for money all the time in this country - especially in places that reek of desperation. You have nearly all spent your years in the Senate catering mostly to corporations even if that was never your intention. The corporations pay for your campaigns, and you must look to their interests if you wish to get re-elected. Now you know better. No longer will you look to financing re-election campaigns. These people with whom you will spend your next three days are your new constituents. Their interests are what you will now look after. This is your opportunity to redeem yourselves. Make the most of it." Alice laid large ziplock bags in front of each Senator and a marker to label the bag. She also pasted labels on the women's purses. After the men emptied their pockets, and everyone labeled their belongings, Alice walked past them all with a large laundry bag to put the zip-lock bags and purses inside. "You all know your Parliamentarian, I hope. Alan Frumin will receive this bag and will hold your belongings waiting for your return. After three days, I will return to your encampments and open a portal for you to the floor of the Senate. The rest will be up to you. It is unlikely that any of you will ever see me again after your return to the Senate." And then, with a series of seventy smoke portals, Alice scattered the Senators to the winds.

After the scattering of the Senators, Alice and Hatter dismantled the TV aerial that he had so recently set up. The poor Gnomes had laboriously dragged two refurbished TV sets from Hatter's lab after his departure to the floor of the Senate, set up a splitter, and wired their two TVs for reception. They had TV for maybe three and a half days, at most. Easy come, easy go. They weren't happy, but they understood the need for heightened security measures.

For most of us in Wonderland, the departure of the Senators meant a return to normality, and a need to replenish stocks of so many items that had been seriously depleted by the Senators. Especially brandy. We were nearly out of brandy. Poor old Bill McGill was nearly at the point of a nervous breakdown. For Alice, however, there was no return to normalcy. Not yet. Her next few weeks were marked by spending evenings uptop in a variety of bars that always kept their TVs tuned to news channels. Wearing a brunette wig and clothes stolen from upscale department stores, Alice went unnoticed in the bars. Whenever a demon-occupied politician showed up on a live broadcast, Alice quietly excused herself to go to the bathroom to open a portal in a stall. Alice made a point of it to always return to pay her bill as she did not want her disguise to become wanted for skipping payment in restaurants. Vice President Dick Cheney was Alice's first demon liberation after the scattering of the Senators, and there was a steady trickle thereafter. An ashen-faced Nancy Pelosi became President as she was third-in-line to the presidency. It was obvious from her demeanor that she had no desire to be President. She was also quite spooked by the demon liberations. Some politicians began to refuse to appear for live broadcasts outdoors.

After three days, Alice returned to the homeless encampments to return the Senators to the Senate floor. All seventy Senators had stayed the full three days and none had walked away. I admit that I thought a lot of them wouldn't last three days in a homeless encampment. No one attempted to mug any of the Senators during their brief stays, so I guess you could say that Alice had chosen her homeless encampments well.

It was right after Alice returned the Senators to the Senate floor that she began her middle-of-the-night grocery store raids following the same plan of operation that she had used when she had picked me up out of a homeless encampment. Alice would first visit the target hypermarket and learn the layout of the store. Then, at the time of the raid, Alice would pass out ski masks to hide faces and rubber gloves to mask fingerprints. Next Alice would open a portal into the hypermarket and toss the shrunken head of the duchess, a sort of smoke bomb that emitted hallucinogenic gases, into the store. A few minutes later, after everyone had fled and the smoke had cleared, Alice led the raiders straight for the gym bags which they used to carry the "booty." They split up with most going for groceries and a few of the raiders going for basic supplies and cookware. Alice had a strict rule that no one was allowed to take anything except basic necessities. Anyone who grabbed for an ipod or similar luxury had a portal open below their feet and was dumped back in the homeless encampment - or in a creek if there was one nearby. Alice's raids were as much political protests against deprivation as they were practical measures to supply needed goods to destitute peoples. Alice's insistence on stealing only basic necessities turned out to be an effective tactic for gaining public sympathy. The newscaster Keith Olbermann, in an impassioned special comment condemning the Bush administration for ignoring issues of poverty, christened Alice "The Princess of Thieves." The name stuck.

Nearly the instant the kidnapped Senators returned to their duties, it was evident that each had undergone a moral transformation. Right-wing news broadcasters and radio celebrities immediately charged that the kidnapped Senators were suffering from "Stockholm Syndrome" and had been brainwashed by Alice. The drumbeat was relentless.

Bernie Sanders had written a book during his three days in his assigned homeless encampment. For nearly seventy-two hours straight, with only paper notebooks and pencils, Senator Sanders had let the inhabitants of his encampment tell their tales of woe in their own voices. Then, unaware that his book had commercial value, Senator Sanders read his book aloud on the Senate Floor from start to finish with C-Span cameras rolling, and sealed his fate.

End of Chapter 36

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. The Longfellow English translation of Dante's "The Divine Comedy" is in the public domain.

Version 2

Chapter 37: Chapter 37  
Chapter 37: "Tea and Tears"

Upon returning to the Senate floor from their ordeal, all of the Senators who had been taken to Hell participated in an astonishing flurry of social reform legislation reminiscent of the "Hundred Days" of the first administration of Franklin Roosevelt. The Senators wanted to bring the United States into line with the civilized democracies of Western Europe. Many impassioned speeches, even by formerly reactionary Republicans, were made in an effort to convince their colleagues in the House of Representatives to pass the reform bills. They also voted as a block to end all U.S. wars abroad. All troops were to be brought home immediately. It was all for naught. All of the Senators who had been taken on a tour of Hell were arrested under the Patriot Act for collaboration with a known terrorist. From there, it was but a simple step for the courts to order each of them to submit to psychiatric evaluations. One-by-one, each was declared insane and removed from office for incapacity. The courts scattered them in insane asylums throughout the country where they were swiftly forgotten as their seats were filled with new sycophants via elections devoid of passion or substance.

As luck would have it, Alice's favorite Senator, Mr. Bernie Sanders of Vermont, was imprisoned in Alice's old asylum just outside the Rabbit Hole. Every Saturday afternoon, Alice puts on her red dress and brunette wig and goes uptop to visit him. I tag along. Every Saturday she tries to convince him to return to Wonderland with her, and he always refuses. Mr. Sanders claims that the presence of the Senators who traveled to Hell in the insane asylums is a continuous shame to the U.S. government. He hopes for eventual vindication. From a distance I watch as Mr. Sanders gets out his chess set - one of the few possessions he brought with him to the asylum - and methodically sets up the pieces. Amidst games of chess, glasses of iced tea, and an occasional glance in my direction as I wander through the towering trees behind the asylum, Alice and Mr. Sanders share stories and a few tears - silent tears - over the future that might have been.

End of Chapter 37

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) holds the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was, of course, written by Dante.

There's one more chapter. -Nikki

Chapter 38: Chapter 38  
Chapter 38: "The Second Sword"

More than two years has passed since Alice's band of kidnapped senators returned from Hell, and some remarkable events have occurred. The United States elected a new president, and for once this one was an idealist rather than just another right-wing hack. The senators languishing in insane asylums were all given pardons by the new president, but their seats in the Senate were long gone, and there would be no return to politics for any of them. In a remarkable gesture, the new president offered Alice a presidential pardon if she would give up leading raids on big box hypermarkets. She angrily refused, and still leads at least ten homeless encampments on raids of such stores every week. She is pressing the hypermarkets in weekly YouTube videos to devote one percent of their shelf space to free basic foodstuffs that anyone can take without any eligibility requirement. She has promised to end raids against any chain that does this. No chain has yet complied. Former Senator Bernie Sanders is now satisfied that his reputation has been restored, and has joined us in Wonderland. He now lives in the same house in Pandemonium as Alice, Mr. White, Bill McGill, and me. He spends his days cheerfully digging in Mr. White's expanded gardens, and is responsible for a greatly increased supply of raw vegetables in Wonderland.

Alice is no longer the person I knew before the accident in her weapons locker, and, I suppose, neither am I. She now does not hesitate to kill in self-defense, and actually did so in one hypermarket raid in which a well-hidden SWAT team was waiting for her. Knowing that Alice and her band of robbers took only food, clothes, cooking equipment, and a few other necessities, and absolutely nothing else, the SWAT team opened fire on her. Not bright. One bullet in the leg was enough to trigger Alice's conversion into the Queen of Hearts. The entire SWAT team lost both hands, and some of them bled to death. Alice feels no guilt. Remarkably, I have no problem with what she did. There was a time when I would have. It is hard to explain the change in my feelings toward the world above. My trip through the Inferno has shown me that the world above is even worse than I had ever imagined. In the world above, evil surrounds, envelops, bathes all of the inhabitants in its mendacity. It suffocates all but the lucky few in a fog of dog-eat-dog competition which the masters of the investor class organize for their profit and amusement. It is slavery in disguise, and somehow the plantation owners manage to stay out of sight and pull their invisible strings to the detriment of the rest of us. I hate them. Am I allowed to say that aloud? I hate them. I feel cold.

Ah, yes. Some of you may still be wondering what I saw in the Mirror of Souls. I saw in the mirror an exhausted schoolteacher slumped over a pile of papers she was grading. She raised her head, and it was obvious that she had been crying - her face marked by a sense of futility. I too feel overwhelmed by a crushing sense of hopelessness. All this effort was a waste. The Senators who witnessed the Inferno and led the charge for a "New America" have been forgotten already. Nobody listened. Nothing changed.

Our new, idealistic president has turned out to be a timid soul who bends over backwards to appease critics and corporations. A monstrous health care reform bill has been floated in the U.S. Senate that requires uninsured individuals to purchase health insurance and threatens to fine them if they don't. The bill even includes threats of prison for those who don't pay the fine. What if someone can't pay for the health insurance or the fine? What then? There are vague promises of subsidies, but no one believes that the subsidies will cover the full cost. Alice detected a near universal sense of panic in homeless encampments across the U.S. that this bill will eventually be used to arrest and imprison homeless people on a mass scale if it passes. Our idealistic president who promised everyone "change" has publicly supported this atrocity. In her frustration, Alice traveled to Washington, D.C. and flung the Angel's Sword into the outer wall of the United States Capitol building where the U.S. Senate meets. To her surprise, the blade caught fire the instant it became embedded in the wall. The Capitol building was evacuated, and numerous fire department personnel attempted to both douse and remove the flaming sword, but both tasks proved impossible. Alice says that she raised her hand several times to retrieve the sword, but it did not return.

After 12 hours, the flames on the blade of the sword spread in the blink of an eye to the entire Capitol building. The flames shot thousands of feet straight up into the sky like a pillar to Heaven and were seen on television screens around the world. As we listened to a radio in the Gnome Library, a newscaster reported that the fire was impervious to both the streams of water from the firemen's hoses and shifts in direction of wind. Alice opened a portal to the roof of a nearby hotel building, and together all of us who lived in the house in Pandemonium - Alice, I, Mr. White, Senator Sanders, and Bill McGill - watched the burning Capitol building light up the night sky of Washington D.C. like the noonday sun of the Sahara Desert.

The End

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. Electronic Arts (EA) owns the copyrights. The original "Inferno" was written, of course, by Dante.

Chapter 39: Chapter 39  
Chapter 39: Sources List

Sources list omitted because of space limit for a single chapter. See last chapter posted for sources.

Last Chapter Sources List Added: Chapter 25: "The Cultists" on April 7, 2017.

Chapter 40: Chapter 40  
Chapter 40: Dedication

For anyone who has ever dreamed of a world without money.


	6. Dragonfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2017, Alice finds herself a target for assassination and ends up in a private little war with President Trump. Alternate Universe: a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland.

Title: Dragonfly  
Category: Games » American McGee's Alice  
Author: nikkilittle  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Fantasy/Adventure  
Published: 07-03-17, Updated: 08-30-17  
Chapters: 23, Words: 27,634  
Chapter 1: Chapter 1  
Table of Contents:

Chapter 01: "Prelude"

Chapter 02: "Hatter's Lab"

Chapter 03: "Ouverture"

Chapter 04: "A Personal Little War"

Chapter 05: "The Wizard in His Lab"

Chapter 06: "The Maiden in Metal"

Chapter 07: "A Bad Taste"

Chapter 08: "In the Realm of Shadows"

Chapter 09: "Pitch Black"

Chapter 10: "Escalation"

Chapter 11: "Big Brother at Work"

Chapter 12: "Rain"

Chapter 13: "Havana"

Chapter 14: "I Read the News Today"

Chapter 15: "Hair"

Chapter 16: "An Evening with Arianne"

Chapter 17: "Recipe for a Molotov Cocktail"

Chapter 18: "Humpty-Trumpty"

Chapter 19: "American Gulag"

Chapter 20: "Return to Havana"

Chapter 21: "Dead White Girl"

Chapter 22: Sources Consulted

Chapter 23: Preview of "Wastelands"

Dragonfly

by Nikki Little

"If this is the best that civilization can do for the human, then give us howling and naked savagery. Far better to be a people of the wilderness and desert, of the cave and the squatting-place, than to be a people of the machine and the Abyss."

-Jack London

Chapter 1: "Prelude"

It was in the first year of the Trump administration that I had my first encounter with the tiny insect-like drones that I had been hearing rumors of for years. The homeless camps were as packed as they had been during the Bush years. Eight years of Obama had made no difference at all. I had kept up my nightly raids on grocery stores. Obama had kept me on the FBI's most wanted list, but my only near-deadly encounters had been with local SWAT teams that now occasionally staked out a grocery store on the minuscule chance that I'd show up while they were there. In order to reduce my chances of getting ambushed, I had started raiding other big grocery store chains as well as Cheapmart.

One time I even raided a Saks Fifth Avenue for winter coats. I helped myself to some very expensive Valrhona chocolate while I was there and ended up on full-color high-quality security video. The store executives posted it to YouTube with the rap song "She's Gotta Have Some" playing. They actually paid the royalty to prevent any possible takedown. They also did some video editing to zoom in on my backside several times. Every close-up of my behind came with a graphic of a measuring tape stretched across my behind. Sometimes it's tough being a sort of negative celebrity. I got even, though. Now I hit Saks Fifth Avenue once or twice a year for coats. When I lead a group of homeless on a thieving trip there, we always empty out the chocolate display case. No, it's never locked. Not valuable enough, I guess.

Anyway, after a typical raid of a Target for food and camping supplies, I lingered a bit for a game of chess with one of the local experts in the homeless encampment. The moon was bright enough to play by. Everything was bathed in a silvery twilight. You'd be surprised at the strength of some of the players in homeless encampments. Some of them were chess hustlers who hung around in the city parks during the daytime. I indulged in round after round of speed chess, banging a battered old Jerger chess clock after every move. I lost track of time, and was startled to see the bright red glow of sunrise off in the distance. I continued playing as it had been awhile since I had had a worthy human opponent at chess. As the rich yellow glow of morning washed over the homeless encampment, I saw an odd glint out of the corner of my eye. It was moving lightning fast at me. I whipped out my bowie knife and held it up as I fell backward off my bench to avoid being hit. My bowie knife intercepted the object and knocked it to the ground. It buzzed insect-like, but it was obviously mechanical. Even though it was clearly broken, I was wary and not about to touch it.

"Got any clean glass jars with a lid about?" I asked my chess partner. He got up and ducked into a supply tent. Less than a minute later I had my glass jar with a lid. I placed the glass jar on the ground and knocked the buzzing mechanical device into the jar with my bowie knife and quickly slapped the lid on. I held the glass jar up to the sunlight and peered at the device inside the jar.

"It looks like a dragonfly," observed my chess partner. Indeed it did. It was a drone.

End of Chapter 1

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2  
Chapter 2: "Hatter's Lab"

Hatter peered intently at the mechanical insect entombed in clear lucite under his microscope. I looked around Hatter's lab at all the equipment on the tables lining the walls. On one wall were endless test tubes, bunsen burners, and autoclaves. Bottles of various chemicals filled glass-doored cabinets above the tables. On another wall, I saw all sorts of screw drivers and wrenches for working with mechanical devices. To the left and right of Hatter along the wall in front of me were tables lined up with microscopes and slides. This wall appeared to be primarily for examining water samples. Notebooks lined the shelves underneath the tables. Perhaps twenty desks scattered around without pattern occupied the central area. Each desk had a label on its front indicating what it was used for. I could only imagine how much knowledge Hatter had stuffed into his head.

"This was an assassination drone," announced Hatter in a low, serious tone. "You were lucky. Good thing you didn't touch it after you knocked it down. It contains an autoinjector needle which appears to still be functional. I tested its payload. A lethal dose of cyanide. It appears the Trump administration wants you dead."

The Obama administration had kept me at number one on the FBI's Most Wanted list, but I never experienced any attempts by the federal government to assassinate me. Local governments were another matter. Glory-seeking SWAT teams hung around in grocery stores at night occasionally hoping to defy the statistical odds that I would show up precisely when they were there. Some local police departments definitely wanted me dead. Chicago was the city where I felt I was most likely to be ambushed. New York City cops, on the other hand, had orders not to engage me if they encountered one of my grocery store raids. They were ordered to keep their distance and merely observe.

"You have to respond to this in some way, Alice. You can't simply continue as if nothing happened. Either you quit raiding grocery stores, or you retaliate. What are you going to do?"

I sat down and stared at the wall. All sorts of thoughts raced through my mind. The U.S. government was down in a bunker beneath Washington D.C. and I had no way in. They had been down there in that bunker since I had tossed the Angel's Sword into the Capitol Building in the summer of 2007. There did not exist a single photograph, video, or even drawing of the inside of the bunker. The federal government was beyond my reach. So how could I respond to the assassination attempt? Just quitting and retreating to Wonderland was out of the question. I was too angry to consider that.

"I'm going to have to think about that, Hatter. I have already decided against doing nothing, but what to do is an open question."

The Trump administration had only been in office for a little longer that a hundred days, and it was already obvious that Trump, who had campaigned as an economic nationalist, was nothing more than a tool for corporate interests. The federal House of Representatives, at his urging, had just voted to replace Obamacare with an even greater monstrosity that would cost millions of people the health insurance that Obamacare had provided them. The one great thing that Obamacare did was the vast expansion of Medicaid in states that opted to take it. Homeless people in those states were actually getting medical care. Would Trump's replacement bill kill the Medicaid expansion? The results in the homeless encampments would be catastrophic. I had already been moving sick homeless people out of states that didn't expand Medicaid to Medicaid Expansion states just so that they could get medical care. I despised the Trump administration even more than I despised the phony progressivism of the Obama administration. What did I feel? Rage. Murderous rage. The U.S. government was in the control of barbarians. I needed to calm down. I turned and walked out of Hatter's Lab with a silent good-bye wave and walked down to the Gnome Bar for a period brandy. I usually only drank the period brandies in the middle of a period, but today I needed a period brandy just to calm my nerves. I didn't want to turn into my rage persona just because I was in a foul mood.

Cheshire showed up at the Gnome Bar to keep me company as I sipped my period brandy. That cat seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing just when I needed some company. He ordered an iced catnip tea for himself.

"Sometimes the best way to deal with a dilemma is to let it simmer for awhile," said Cheshire. "Take a day or two to figure out what to do next."

I made no grocery store raids that night or the next. Meanwhile Hatter was hard at work on a full-body metal fabric undergarment for me that was needle-proof. I needed to find a messenger to the Trump administration, and I had just the person in mind.

End of Chapter 2

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3  
Chapter 3: "Ouverture"

Barack Obama sat on the concrete near the chairs and tables of an outdoor cafe. We were right next to some trees and a bit hidden from view. He was looking a little green. Most people do after their first trip in one of my mental portals. An old-fashioned smoke portal would have been a much gentler ride, but that would have required my physical presence exposing me to the risk of being shot by Secret Service agents. I had been sitting in a sports bar uptop in Montgomery, Alabama watching the news on TV and nursing a mint julep. Barack Obama appeared live in an interview. It was just the moment I was waiting for.

"Perhaps a glass of mint tea to sooth the stomach?" I asked.

Barack Obama looked up at me.

"Wearing a disguise? I know who you are. I'm not armed. I knew it was only a matter of time."

"Take off your suit," I commanded.

"I'm not armed," Mr. Obama repeated a bit indignantly.

"I'm not looking for arms. I'm looking for GPS trackers and audio transmitters. Spyware, in other words."

Mr. Obama rolled his eyes, took off his suit, and held up his arms for me to pat him down.

"Just like what air travelers endure in U.S. airports," I reminded him. I did not enjoy the crotch search – not at all – but I felt I had to be careful. I checked the suit last. I tried to hurry because I was out in public. A bit hidden by the trees from most of the customers, but still in view. I removed the battery from his cell phone and dropped it into my left velcro-sealed dress pocket. The empty pocket. I didn't want the cell-phone battery contacts to touch anything metal.

"Clean," I said. "Sit down in a chair and I'll buy us some drinks. I'll give you the cell phone battery back later."

"I can pay for my own drinks."

"Not here you can't," I said. "We're at my favorite outdoor cafe in Havana, Cuba. The fish tacos are perfect. No, the fish aren't from the Gulf of Mexico. The Cubans send their fishing fleets out into the Atlantic, now. Nobody in Cuba wants oil-contaminated fish. They won't even serve it to tourists."

"You have Cuban pesos?"

"I have Cuban convertible pesos. One convertible peso is worth exactly one U.S. dollar."

A waitress saw me and came over. She didn't know that I was the "American Robin Hood." Every time I came I wore a different outfit and a different wig. To her, I was just another tourist.

"And what would you two business people like?" she asked in perfect British English. Perhaps she saw me patting down the former president and assumed some big business deal was about to take place.

"Fish tacos, iced hibiscus tea, and a mint julep." I looked at Barack Obama hinting for him to order.

"Tell her what you want," I said.

"Fish tacos and iced black tea," said Mr. Obama.

"No alcohol?" I teased.

"Not now," Mr. Obama replied.

Mr. Obama's eyes followed the waitress as she walked away.

"She is quite shapely, isn't she?" I teased. Valeria, the waitress, was short, dusky-skinned, rather plump, and very curvaceous. She had long black hair down past her shoulders. I was quite sure she was the Cuban feminine ideal. "Cuban men don't like their women skinny."

"So you must get hit on a lot down here, then?"

I knew what he was hinting at. "Yes, I get hit on a lot by local men." Mr. Obama suddenly looked perplexed.

"The waitress didn't recognize me!"

"Imagine that," I said. "We are in Cuba. There are a lot of men here who look a lot like you. You would be recognized eventually if you walked around. Especially in that suit."

"So what's our business, here? You must have something important to say to me to pull this stunt."

I looked around to see if anyone was seated close enough to overhear. No one. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon. Not rush hour. Not for tourists, anyway. Mr. Obama and I had this little corner of the outdoor cafe to ourselves. "I do indeed. I need a personal messenger to the new president of the United States. I just experienced an assassination attempt in a homeless encampment."

"You were obviously lucky. May I ask how the attempt was carried out?"

"A tiny drone that looks just like a dragonfly. If you look closely at it, you can see that it's mechanical. I knocked the drone down, knocked it into a glass jar, and had our Hatter examine it in his labs. He said it contained a tiny auto-injector needle loaded with cyanide. Surely you know something about those dragonfly drones."

"They were designed to be used by police in hostage situations. They were camera drones. They carried only miniature cameras and a wireless capability like a smartphone. They were remote-controlled, and their range was essentially anyplace with cell phone towers. Naturally they were also used by the U.S. military."

"You can talk about this freely? It's not classified?"

"Officially it's classified, but Wikileaks exposed the dragonfly drones quite some time ago. They're an open secret. Pictures of them have been published in Wired Magazine. They were never used as weapons. The cyanide-loaded needle is something new."

"Never before used as a weapon? So this is something the Trump administration dreamed up?"

"Correct. During my time in office, the dragonfly drones were barely capable of carrying camera equipment. Apparently miniaturization has progressed enough to allow these drones to now carry a weapon in addition to a camera. So what message do you want me to carry, as if I didn't know?"

"The message is this. The assassination attempt means all-out war. I don't possess any giant bombs or any of what you would call weapons of mass destruction, but I do possess the ability to retaliate."

Valeria brought our fish tacos and drinks. Mr. Obama again watched her as she walked away. I looked around again to see if anyone was within eavesdropping distance. No one really close enough to overhear. I made sure to speak in a low, barely audible volume. Mr. Obama spoke first.

"She has hips like Michelle."

"You like big hips?"

"I'm a black dude. We all like big hips," said Mr. Obama with a mischievous smile. I wondered if he was joking. Merely making fun of a stereotype of black men. "So what can you do to retaliate? Mr. Trump obviously thinks you're unable to respond in any meaningful manner."

"I'll take you there now. A little demonstration. I need to pay for our food before we leave. After all, I'd like to come back."

Mr. Obama chuckled at that. "Very practical to only pay when you're coming back."

"Contrary to what you might think, I try to pay as often as I can. My thefts are mostly limited to the homeless raids I lead on grocery stores. Often I can't resist snatching some chocolate for myself. I didn't get these hips and this butt from mushrooms and rice."

"Chocolate?" Mr. Obama laughed. "That's the only thing you steal for yourself?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

The waitress walked by and handed me the check denominated in convertible pesos. Only people with convertible pesos could afford to eat in this cafe. Four pesos for each order of fish tacos and one peso for each glass of tea. The mint julep was five pesos. I gave the waitress a twenty convertible peso note. "Keep the rest," I said. The waitress practically danced away.

"You just tipped her a week's salary, didn't you?"

"The average Cuban state worker's salary, the last time I checked, was around thirty dollars per month. I just tipped her five dollars."

"We're ready to go now?"

"We're ready, but I have one question for you before we leave. Why did you put me at number one on the FBI most wanted list? You know I'm not in the same category as Osama Bin Laden or Timothy McVeigh."

"Well, there was that little stunt in the United States Senate."

"I literally took a bath in rage potion. It was an accident."

"You did kill one Capitol Police Officer."

"He had a gun pointed at my head and was about to pull the trigger. I didn't have the ability then to create a portal with my mind. Nowadays I could have simply teleported myself out of the way."

"I don't remember seeing you before I dropped through the portal."

"I don't have to be physically present anymore to create a portal."

"You were number one on the FBI most wanted list, but all of us in the intelligence community agreed that it was best not to try to assassinate you. Might cause riots. I issued an executive order for intelligence operatives merely to observe you and not engage you in any way. Needless to say, this executive order did not apply to local police departments. Local control and all that. Also you did have fans in high places. My two daughters thought you ought to be in comic books."

I got up and motioned to Mr. Obama to follow me into the small grove of trees next to our table. We were out of sight and I opened a portal. Exit stage right.

End of Chapter 3

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 2

Chapter 4: Chapter 4  
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter 4: "A Personal Little War"

I dropped us both through one of my mental portals and shoved a garbage can in front of Mr. Obama after we emerged from the portal. Fortunately, he didn't need it.

"Where are we?" he asked. "Looks like someone's bedroom."

"It's my bedroom. I need some equipment from this dresser."

I opened two drawers in the dresser at the foot of my bed, my equipment dresser, and pulled out a pair of binoculars which I hung around my neck, and a safety harness. The kind worn by construction workers.

"What's that for?"

"Where we're going, you're going to need it."

I buckled the anchor end of the safety harness around my waist and then looked at Mr. Obama realizing that he didn't appear to have hips. I looked him over carefully, and then decided that I had no alternative but to wrap the safety harness around his chest just under the armpits.

"There's no possibility that this safety harness could slip over my hips, but your hips? That's an open question. Sorry, but under the armpits is the safest place on a tall skinny stick like you."

Mr. Obama looked genuinely concerned.

"Just where are we going where I have to wear a safety harness?"

"Here," I said, yanking him through another mental portal. I made a silent plea for him not to puke.

"Okay, so we're up in a tree. Why the harness?"

"Can you see the ground?"

"No. Too many branches in the way."

"Good."

"Are we high up?"

"Try not to think about it. We're in the top of a lodgepole pine. Stay exactly where you are. These aren't exactly the sturdiest of branches."

Mr. Obama suddenly had a funny look on his face. "Aren't lodgepole pines those very tall pines with straight unbranched trunks that often go thirty feet high before you see the first branch?"

"Yup."

"Just how high up are we?"

"High enough not to be seen by the closed-circuit TV cameras scattered everywhere in these trees in the lowest branches. The cameras are all pointed down. We're way above the cameras in the only place where we can go unseen. Try not to speak too loudly just in case there are microphones down there."

"The wind whipping through these branches would make microphones useless, at least at this moment. We're really high up, aren't we?"

"At least sixty feet. Thus the safety harness. Hang on to that branch and don't let go."

"Why are we here?"

"Look straight ahead in the gap between the branches. See that complex of buildings down there?"

"Yup. What are they?"

"You don't recognize them?"

"Nope."

"I think you're playing dumb. That's the NSA Utah Data Center. And we're on a mountainside way off in the distance."

"Why are we here?"

"I'm going send Mr. Trump a message. I'm going to destroy those buildings. I'm going to create subsidence under those buildings by opening one portal after another deep below them until the stress on the foundations creates cracks that will send everyone inside fleeing outside. Don't worry. I'll wait until everyone is outside before I finish off the buildings."

"That data center is there for a purpose. It's to keep the United States safe from terrorist attack."

"If that's what it was really for, it wouldn't be hoovering up all digital communication in the United States and around the globe. You would still be engaging in targeted surveillance of the type that existed before George W. Bush took advantage of the September eleventh attack to push through the Patriot Act and target everyone. The purpose of that data center is to gather information on every American so as to blackmail him or her in the future if he or she ever becomes a political pain-in-the-butt. Donald Trump during his campaign was a case-in-point. Anybody else would have been destroyed by all the bad publicity of events in his past. Donald Trump is still a case-in-point. All this Russia stuff. You'd think talking to a Russian official were illegal in this country."

"You sound like a Trump supporter."

"You must be kidding. Look at me. I'm female."

"There are women who support Trump."

"Never mind Trump. I came here to send a message to him. You're trying to distract me, aren't you? Don't want me to destroy your little panopticon down there."

"It was worth a try."

I held the binoculars up to my eyes and began opening my standard door-size portals deep underneath the buildings in the NSA complex off in the distance. Unlike Caterpillar, I did not possess the ability to create portals of any size I wanted. I wondered how many door-sized portals deep underground of the buildings would be required to make the walls crack. I began to count aloud, which annoyed Mr. Obama greatly.

"What you're doing will endanger the security of the United States," huffed the former president.

"Get real. They're drowning in data. They've got so much data they don't have time to sort through it all. If you were serious about terrorism, you'd still be using William Binney's old ThinThread program which was targeted surveillance and respected the privacy of innocent Americans."

Mr. Obama started to open his mouth and then shut it. He knew the futility of arguing with me. I had a reputation for stubbornness known around the world.

I had lost track of how many portals I had opened. Mr. Obama grinned. He had stopped my counting. I continued to peer through the binoculars and, after about ten minutes, I saw people streaming out of all the buildings. I stopped creating portals and waited until people stopped streaming out the doors. I didn't want any buildings to collapse while people were still inside. After a few minutes of no more people streaming out the doors, I restarted opening portals. In a few minutes, buildings started collapsing at the NSA Utah Data Center. In a few moments, they were all merely piles of rubble.

End of Chapter 4

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5  
Chapter 5: "The Wizard in His Lab"

I dropped Obama and myself through a mental portal into my bedroom in Wonderland and unbuckled him from the safety harness. I unbuckled myself and returned the harness to the drawer. For a moment I considered taking him to the Gnome Bar, but the possibility that he had some tracking device on him that I had missed deterred me. I dropped Obama through a portal back to his interview spot, handing him his cell-phone battery at the last moment. I dropped myself through a portal straight to Hatter's lab where I found him still working on a metal-fabric body armor outfit that covered the entire body up to the neck. Hatter grinned at me as I appeared.

"You're just in time for your fitting! Take off your dress!"

"Anything to get me naked, eh, Hatter?"

Hatter pouted. "You're not exactly the type I most desire to see unclothed. Give me some credit. I am asking you to disrobe for purely professional purposes! I've made some progress on the metal fabric armor. It's lightweight and nearly undetectable under the clothes. No thicker than a cotton spring dress. It's puncture-proof, but it won't protect you from injury."

"Won't protect me from injury? How is that possible?"

"It will protect your skin from being punctured by a needle, but the force of the impact can still drive the fabric down into your skin. In other words, it will save you from cyanide, but not from having a big hole punched into your skin."

"Lovely. Still, it's a vast improvement over going out unprotected. I take it that there will be no protection for my face?"

"Practicality makes that impossible. You need to be able to see, to speak, to eat, and to drink. You also need unimpeded hearing. I could include a sort of hoodie to protect your neck and back of your head, but you'd have to wear it over your hair or cut your hair. Not really practical. I have a hard time imagining you cutting your hair. You've always been quite prideful of that shoulder-length copper-red hair."

"I want the neck protection. You're calling me vain, aren't you?"

"Well, you always have been quite prideful of your looks. And for the past couple of years, of your body as well. Especially your chest. Take your dress off so I can measure you for the metal fabric outfit. It will have to be very tight-fitting to offer maximum protection."

"Don't make a corset out of it, Hatter. I still need to breathe!"

"Off with the dress!"

I removed my dress and Hatter got busy with the measuring tapes like a skilled tailor. Considering that he made his own clothes, I'd say that he actually was a highly skilled tailor. He was quite professional in measuring me. No remarks about the size of my bust, my hips, my butt, my thighs, or the bulge right below my belly button.

"Come back in a day and I might have a prototype for you to wear. In the meantime, no appearances in homeless encampments. Too dangerous without any protection."

"I've been staying out of the homeless encampments. I prep the grocery store for a raid by driving out the employees with the shrunken head, and then I open a portal unannounced in the homeless encampment. Some people do show up for the unannounced raids. Four minutes and I hurry them back through the portal. Then I disappear. Those dragonfly drones would be much too expensive to deploy in every big box hypermarket in the country. I can also imagine that no commercial business would be pleased to have a cyanide dart flying around in their store. Even after hours when only the stockers, cleaners, and mule drivers were inside."

"Sensible. I knew you wouldn't take unnecessary risks. You did when you were young and reckless during Wonderland's civil war."

"That was a long time ago, Hatter. Do you still have the lucite-encased Dragonfly Drone?"

"Yes, I have it. I've done all the examination I can of it. You want someone else to examine it?"

"How about the Cuban DI? Our friends in Cuba could take the Dragonfly Drone to them for a thorough examination. I'm sure that they would have far more equipment than you do. Maybe they'll find a weakness in the drone to exploit, or even figure out how to hack into it and disable it."

"Don't get your hopes up. There's also the risk that they might get the idea of using that thing against their own population. Never underestimate the ability of a bad idea to spread. Cuba is far more egalitarian than the United States, but it is no democracy. In the meantime, you might want to ready yourself for wearing what is essentially a metal corset."

"Should I wear my lingerie with that metal fabric or not?"

"Metal fabric alone. The metal fabric will be your lingerie. A sort of full-body girdle."

"I'm going to look like a stuffed sausage in that thing aren't I?"

"You look like a stuffed sausage with nothing on at all."

"Good! Then I won't have to worry about you lusting after me." I turned and walked away from Hatter, coming down hard on my heel to make my butt bounce. I picked up my dress and pulled it back over my head, tightening the waist sash.

"Peep show's over, Hatter! See you tomorrow!"

End of Chapter 5

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6  
Chapter 6: "The Maiden in Metal"

Hatter found me in the Gnome Bar the next evening swilling iced hibiscus tea and informed me that my new puncture-proof metal fabric suit was ready.

"The fabric is an adaptation of a sharksuit. To be most effective at resisting needles, the fabric will need to be stretched as tight as a trampoline."

I winced. "You mean the suit will be a metal corset."

"Well, maybe not that bad." Hatter hemmed and hawed. I knew it was going to be bad.

"Now?" I asked.

"Ready when you are," replied Hatter, trying to sound chipper.

I followed Hatter along glumly through Wonderland Woods toward his castle. I could have just opened a portal and walked through, but I wasn't in any hurry to arrive. Besides, it had been awhile since I had just taken a sight-seeing walk through Wonderland Woods. The Woods were just as beguiling and enchanting as ever: full of colorful butterflies, strange and wondrous plants, and, of course, patches of killer mushrooms. The killer mushroom patches were fenced off for the protection of gnome children. No, no blood roses anymore in Wonderland. I had long ago killed off entirely those monsters. I most enjoyed the giant orchids which "hugged" you as you walked past. The vanilla, jasmine, and citrus scents of the various orchids rubbed off onto your clothes and lasted hours after your encounter.

Hatter had left open the front doors to his castle, and I followed him inside. His living room just inside the door and his library through a door on the right in the living room were the most interesting parts of Hatter's castle to me. I walked through the door at back, through the dining room and kitchen, and toward the stairway up to Hatter's laboratory.

"Here we are!" announced Hatter, pointing to a metal-fabric body suit draped over a chair.

"That body suit looks awfully small," I remarked in a low, somewhat anxious voice. "I don't think I'm going to fit in that. It looks like Michelle Pfeiffer's catsuit from Batman Returns."

"Of course you'll fit in it!" announced Hatter cheerfully. "I have two gnomes and a crowbar ready to assist!"

"That's not funny." Hatter was joking about the crowbar, but it turned out there really were two gnome men ready to assist with stuffing me into the suit. I took off my dress, folded it in half, and laid it over the back of a chair.

I laid down on a clean gym pad on the floor and took off my my bra, panties, and socks. A gnome man laid my lingerie and socks on the chair with the dress. Hatter folded back a metal fabric overlay and unzipped the back. I placed my feet into the metal fabric suit and began to wiggle my way in, my breasts and roll below the waist jiggling and bouncing all the way. Mercifully, no one made any remarks. My hips were the first obstacle. It took both of the gnome men to help me squish my fleshy hips inside the suit. My hips went through the suit like a pig through a python. My second obstacle was my bust. I had to squash and stuff my breasts underneath the neckline where they proceeded to impede my further entry into the metal-fabric suit for the rest of the way. My boobs got pushed up to my chin as I struggled to get my feet into the bottom of the suit.

"Hatter, this isn't practical. I can't do this every night before a raid." I was almost in.

"Pity you aren't still flat-chested," observed Hatter. "It would be a lot easier for you to get in."

"You still wish I were a 100-pound stick, don't you? I'm quite fond of the boobs." I shoved on my boobs inside the fabric trying to get them down into the proper place. Good thing the metal fabric was soft as silk inside. I wondered how that was even possible. Hatter huffed and puffed as he struggled to zip up the back. My breasts inside the metal fabric shrank before my eyes. When he finished zipping me in, I felt my hips and butt and was startled to find that the rounded fullness that made me look so good in a dress was completely gone.

I stood up and looked in a mirror. This thing was worse than a corset. It was a full-body tourniquet. Everything was so squished in that I actually looked like a tiny gymnast in her Olympic outfit. I wondered what would happen if I sneezed. I wondered if anyone would recognize me when dressed.

"I...can't...breathe!" Then I fainted.

End of Chapter 6

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7  
Chapter 7: "A Bad Taste"

Cheshire was over in a corner pouring iced catnip tea down his throat, swirling it in his mouth, and then spewing it out into a hand sink. Yes, he could actually hold a cup. He used his front paws and extended claws somewhat like fingers. My head felt light and the swirling of the ceiling slowed down.

"He's trying to get the taste out of mouth," Hatter commented with a blank expression on his face.

"What happened to him?" I asked. The ceiling stopped swirling.

"You," said Hatter. Hatter looked over at Cheshire reaching for another glass of iced catnip tea on a tray. Cheshire had to use both front paws to pick up a glass. A gnome scurried up with another tray containing six glasses of iced catnip tea. The gnome looked at me and gestured that he would bring me a glass of tea.

"What did I do?"

"The damn piece-of-shit Chinese zipper in the metal fabric suit got stuck. We couldn't pry you out of that metal fabric suit no matter what we did. Lindsay took one look at you passed out on the floor and ran out into Wonderland Woods to hunt down Cheshire."

"Lindsay did something for me?" Lindsay was Hatter's wife. Lindsay Lohan. Rescued from the clutches of the crazy American legal system to provide an object of lust for Hatter. So he wouldn't pay any attention to Arianne and me. Lindsay Lohan. So perpetually drunk that she actually married Hatter. Maybe Hatter looks handsome to blurred vision. A gnome approached with a tray with several varieties of iced tea. I picked up a glass of what I knew to be orange-spice black tea. The gnome grinned at me and I wondered why.

"The sight of you in that tight metal fabric outfit must have dredged up some awful memory of being stuffed into a corset herself in the past. She came back with Cheshire in about eight minutes. She must have run all the way. I was seriously considering trying a wire cutter to get you out, but I was afraid of stabbing you with the device."

"What did Cheshire do?"

"He slipped his fangs underneath the metal fabric and tugged the fabric down very slowly to avoid slipping a fang into you. He was very, very careful to avoid piercing you with one of his fangs. He gave me the funniest look when he first saw you on the floor. I had to explain fast. He did ask me if the metal fabric contains lead before he put it in his mouth."

"Does it?"

"Of course not! Do you think I'd wrap you up in toxic metal?"

"What is it made of?"

"Titanium. Very expensive. Non-toxic. At least to humans. No studies I know of on cats, though."

"So he spits and spits and spits."

"Because of the bad taste, I suppose."

I walked over to Cheshire. He was still spitting. I gave him a kiss on his furry face. Once again I had been rescued by Cheshire. My furry guardian angel. How many times was this? He grinned sheepishly at me and continued spitting. I walked back over to Hatter. My head still felt full of fog.

"It was quite comical to watch him pull the tight metal fabric off you. When he pulled the fabric past your boobs, they popped up like a pair of jack-in-the-boxes and whopped him in the face. It was fascinating to watch all that flesh on your hips spill out as he pulled the fabric down."

"You had me squished down to the size of a skeleton!" My head still felt light.

"Lush plus-size model curves stuffed into a Hollywood starlet suit. I'll never try that again."

"So you're going to abandon the metal fabric body suit?"

"No, I'm going to test the protective properties of a metal fabric suit cut to the same size as your lingerie. A thicker suit would be completely impractical as it would impede your movements to an unacceptable extent. A looser-fitting metal fabric suit won't protect you at all from being punctured, but it probably, I hope, will protect you from the cyanide in the needle of those assassin drones."

"How long do I have to wait?" I considered lying down.

"A day at least. Maybe two."

A gnome approached me with another tray offering glasses of various iced teas. He was still grinning. Why was he grinning? At that moment, like a slap in the face, I realized that I was still naked with my boobs, butt, and roll below the waist all jiggling and wobbling with my every movement. Hatter burst out laughing.

"I was wondering when you would notice!"

I decided to do only one grocery store raid that night. One of the smaller homeless encampments. Down inside the subway tunnels of New York City. A long-abandoned subway station on an active line. This homeless encampment would be safe for me to walk into. The dragonfly drones depended on solar energy to maintain power. I was going into a realm of dim lights and shadows.

End of Chapter 7

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8  
"The worst illiterate is the political illiterate. He hears nothing, sees nothing, takes no part in political life. He doesn't seem to know that the cost of living, the price of beans, of flour, of rent, of medicines all depend on political decisions. He even prides himself on his political ignorance, sticks out his chest and says he hates politics. He doesn't know, the imbecile, that from his political non-participation comes the prostitute, the abandoned child, the robber and, worst of all, corrupt officials, the lackeys of exploitative multinational corporations." -Bertolt Brecht

Chapter 8: "In the Realm of Shadows"

It was three o'clock in the morning when I arrived at the abandoned Worth Street subway platform in New York City with my bag of raid equipment. Dim lights shone along the silent tracks casting shadows everywhere I looked. A pillar with "Worth" marked in black ink stood in front of me. It was covered from head to foot in curlicues of black spray-paint. Graffiti covered the walls everywhere I looked. There was no platform on the opposite side of the tracks or in the center. Just the platform on my left and tracks on my right. Rusted metal beams across the ceiling held up whatever was above.

I approached the part of the platform with antiquated metallic cages holding light bulbs along the inner side of the platforms. All of the bulbs were lit. The Worth Street platform may have been abandoned since 1962, but someone was still doing routine maintenance such as replacing bulbs.

A Nighthawk explosive gases detector was plugged into the bottom plug-in of an electrical outlet at the edge of the public area of the platform. The red digital display shone eerily amidst the dim light and shadows. A cord ran from the top plug-in of the electrical outlet to a tiny dormitory refrigerator sitting on top of a wooden pallet. Electrical tape against the wall held the cord up off the floor. I could see a second tiny dormitory refrigerator also sitting on a pallet plugged into the top plug-in of the electrical outlet at the opposite end of the public area of the platform. Its cord was also held up off the floor by electrical tape on the wall. Another detector was plugged into the bottom plug-in of the outlet. Probably a smoke detector.

Farther back on both sides of the public area of the platform, I saw two-burner portable electric cooktops sitting on beat-up wooden tables. Their short cords were plugged into electrical outlets. I noticed that one plug-in by each table was free. Hand-made wooden shelving stood by both tables holding non-perishable foods such as spaghetti, rice, dry beans, instant mashed potatoes, and teabags in big covered glass jars with taped labels. One shelf was full of cans of evaporated milk and small, plastic bowls stacked up. The bottom shelves on both sides had Ajax dish liquid, bottles of Clorox, bars of soap, boxes of powdered floor cleaner, and big, plastic tubs that I thought might be for washing dishes. I had seen pictures in newspapers of Peace Corps Volunteers in Africa washing dishes in a row of three big plastic tubs. Soapy water in the first, clear rinse in the second, and sanitizer in the third. I noticed small containers of salt, pepper, oregano, basil, sage, and thyme on the tables. I wondered what was in the refrigerators and asked to take a look in the one closest to me. Eggs and carrots. Nothing else except ice in the small trays in the tiny freezer area.

In the back of the public area I saw a cement stairway which looked as if someone had spilled a bucket of black paint at the top of the stairs. The black discoloration ran down the left side of all the steps all the way to the floor. A dimly lit restroom was visible to the right of the stairway. Trash was swept into corners near the stairway. Just to the left of the stairway was a graffiti which announced "Welcome to Hell" above an image of the iconic Big Boy holding aloft a plate of roasted rat with an apple in its mouth. I felt a shiver. I had walked into what looked like the set of a horror movie.

Feral cats, wide awake and on the hunt, roamed everywhere both on the platform and down along the tracks. Three dozen total perhaps? Several of them were feasting on large rats. I guessed that the evaporated milk was for the cats. Perhaps twenty-five people slept on what looked like army surplus cots. Two guards posted across the tracks approached me. Both of them were carrying hunting rifles. I stood still and waited for them. The taller guard spoke first.

"You're looking well. It's been about a year since you were last here. As you can see, there are more of us down here. I think that there were only ten of us when you showed up for the first time. We were really surprised. We never thought you'd show up in a place like this. Nine of the original ten are still here."

"What happened to the tenth?" I asked.

"At first, we thought she had found a way out of this place. She just disappeared. Then people from another platform, maybe the 91st Street platform, showed us a newspaper article of a body discovered floating in the East River. No ID on the body. The newspaper had a drawing of the face. We knew it was her. We just knew."

"I'm sorry. Almost every large homeless camp I've visited has had at least one suicide. People keep hoping the politicians will do something positive, but nothing ever happens. People give up."

"You came to do a raid. I'll go wake up our day runners. They go uptop to the food banks. Our night runners are out scavenging through dumpsters. You'd be amazed what grocery stores throw away."

The shorter guard came back with three day runners. "I'll go see if I can find some volunteers who don't mind losing a little sleep for food that they get to choose." In a few minutes he came back with seven more people. "Ten enough?" he asked.

"The number is up to you. I'm willing to take everyone through the portal if you want."

"You'll take all of us?" The shorter guard seemed incredulous.

"I've done raids with as many as forty people. Of course, those people knew exactly what to do. Remember that we've got only four minutes inside a store. After three minutes and fifteen seconds, I use a loud horn to get everyone back. Forty-five seconds to get everyone back through the portal. I count as people go through. Every once in a while, somebody doesn't make it to the portal. At four minutes, I go through and close the portal. Don't worry, I'll explain how a raid is done before we leave. There are only a few things to remember."

In a few moments, I had everyone living here except the two guards ready to go. Everyone agreed that it was best if the two guards remained behind. Nobody here had any qualms about stealing food. Before we went on our raid, however, one member of the group had downloaded several videos on YouTube that she felt I absolutely needed to see before we went on a raid. Curious, I indulged her.

"People in New York City have been seeing weird insects inside grocery stores. Insects they had never seen inside grocery stores before." She showed me several cell phone videos of what appeared to be dragonflies inside grocery stores. I heaved a great sigh.

"Thank you for showing me those videos. Those were not insects. They were drones waiting for me to show up."

"What could those tiny little things do to you?"

"They carry auto-injector needles filled with cyanide. They're for me." I paused for a moment. "You have internet down here?"

"There's an independent coffee shop almost directly above our heads. They run an open wireless network and never shut it off."

I looked at our crowd. "Change of plans everyone. We're going to raid a Cheapmart in a foreign country. Great Britain suit everyone? It's still English on the labels." No complaints. If anything, everyone seemed a little excited to see something besides an American grocery store. I still needed to give my pre-raid speech to everyone.

"Every single raid I do follows the same formula. First, I open a smoke portal and toss through the shrunken head of the duchess which releases a non-toxic but hallucinogenic gas that makes people see monsters. One whiff and everybody runs. It takes 30-60 seconds for the gas to fill the store depending on its size. It dissipates quickly. After 90 seconds I go through the portal first and everyone going on the raid should follow. If something has gone wrong such as cops showing up, I slam the portal shut on you. I return and we choose some other target to raid. I count heads as you come through the portal. The portal will have opened up next to an aisle that has gym bags on the shelves. The portal will remain open the entire time that we are in the target store. I always scout out target stores in advance. Grab a gym bag. This is what you will use to carry your loot. Head immediately to your pre-determined target and fill your gym bag full. When your gym bag is full, head immediately back to the portal and go through. Don't be dainty. Grab. Be quick about it. We all have to be out after four minutes. At three minutes fifteen seconds, my timer alarm will go off. I will blow on a very loud horn. That means everybody out immediately. Run to the portal and go through. Immediately step to the left or right and get out of the way so that you don't get run over. I count heads as you go through. I leave last after everyone else is through. Then I close the portal with a jackbomb. Stand back when I do it. Afterwards, do whatever you do to unwind after something stressful. I usually leave at this time."

Everyone looked at each other. The original group living on this platform who had all done the first raid picked one or two "newbs" to come with them. I still had to distribute the usual disposable rubber gloves and ski masks.

"Everyone has to wear these disposable gloves during the raid. Wait until you have returned to this platform to dispose of them. Don't toss them in a garbage can inside the target store. Your fingerprints are on the inside of the gloves! Everyone must cover their face with a ski mask during the raid. You can keep the ski mask. I'll give you all a few minutes to decide what your targets are for the raid. A few of you should grab large bulk bags of rice and packages of spaghetti. Don't be delicate. Sweep the boxes of spaghetti off the shelves into your gym bags. Don't stop to pick up the ones that miss. Avoid highly perishable foods. One of you should grab for eggs since you have refrigerators. Check to see how much space you have available. Don't take the time to check for broken eggs. Just grab. You can check the eggs later. Someone should grab for canned soups. Remember that cans are heavy. Leave the cans for people who can lift 100 pounds. Grab for bulk packs whenever you can. No expensive shiny stuff. Remember that this is a form of political protest. If you grab for an expensive laptop computer, I'll drop you immediately back on the platform. In homeless encampments above, I've dropped people into creeks in summer. No expensive shiny stuff. I mean it. Chromebooks are okay. So are netbooks if you can find one. Now you should decide what your targets are."

I passed out the disposable rubber gloves and the ski masks while the raiders decided what to grab for. I also put the disposable gloves on my own hands, but no ski mask. I did my raids with my own face uncovered. No point in covering my face anyway as my clothes and the portals were dead give-aways. After a few minutes, I blew my horn and everyone snapped to attention.

"One last piece of advice: don't grab for anything in glass. Glass breaks. You can get hurt if a glass jar hits the floor. Be careful if you're grabbing something that is next to glass containers. Now, let's go!"

I blew open a smoke portal and in went the shrunken head of the duchess. Show time.

End of Chapter 8

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9  
Chapter 9: "Pitch Black"

The raid went as normal with two small hitches. The first small hitch was that one young woman started to grab for Chromebooks and I stopped her. "The electrical adapters are all for 220-240 volts. Leave them! Get something nonelectrical." She filled her gym bag with plastic bottles of cooking oil. The second hitch was another young woman who wanted to swipe dresses and was unaware that British dress sizes were not the same as U.S. sizes. I warned her and she started grabbing two or three of every size available. I thought that was the smart way to go about it. Grab everything and sort it out later.

The prizes of the raid were some folding card tables and portable folding aluminum lawn chairs. It was 3:30 A.M. after we finished the raid. The two guards met me and asked me to take a walk with them to help with a problem that they were reluctant to handle. Dead bodies in a completely abandoned line. They carried their rifles with them. Propped against their shoulders pointed almost straight up. I was sure that they were military veterans.

"That's the third rail," announced the taller guard pointing downward off the platform. "Stay as far as you can from it." He walked down a graduated series of concrete blocks piled up to the left of the platform which served as a sort of ladder for the feral cats. The concrete blocks were about 18 inches wide which was wide enough except for one problem: the blocks were shoved up against the wall of the tunnel. My left hip would be in the way. The taller guard looked back at me and asked why I didn't follow.

"These!" I said, pointing to my hips. He broke out laughing.

"Too shapely for the stairs! Want me to get the ladder, Princess?"

"No, I'll hop down. It's only a few feet."

I sat down on the edge of the concrete which the residents kept swept and mopped and let myself down delicately. We headed left toward the spur line that was completely abandoned. After about two minutes of walking, I spotted to my left a graffiti that had my own face. There was a quote with my portrait.

"Money is a sick, psychotic scorekeeping system invented by a tiny handful of super-rich people to control the whole of humanity. They control the price of everything and the wages everyone earns. It is an economic dictatorship. It is the continuation of slavery without the ankle chain and whip. The new lash becomes the threat of hunger and homelessness. Anyone who challenges the system is imprisoned or cast out into the streets to serve as an example to the rest. Under capitalism, governments, legal systems, jails, prisons, police, security guards, and the military all serve to protect the power of the billionaire class. They work to ensure the continuation of the system of mass servitude. Make no mistake: if you work for money, you are a slave." -Alice of Wonderland

"It's quite a quote," said the shorter guard. "Most people in the world above us would dismiss it out of hand. They would say that you're the crazy one. Those of us down here in the tunnels know otherwise. The people of the world above are sleepwalkers. It's a real-life Matrix up there. The idea that money is an illusion, a pure abstraction, requires too much effort on their part. They don't want to consider the idea that our society is stark raving mad. Look at who our president is! The movie 'Idiocracy' was supposed to be a satire, not prophesy!"

"You won't get any argument from me about that movie. I saw it a long time ago and I've been thinking about it a lot." We trudged past a platform that was in use. It was brightly lit, clean, and had no graffiti up on the platform itself. To the left and right of the platform, however, the frequent graffiti images continued. A few of the graffiti images appeared to be painted with a brush. One such painted image showed a giant rat with a crown and scepter and the quote "We rule the night!"

"Some of these graffiti artists have real talent!" I commented as I stared at King Rat.

"And yet the only thing some of them get for their work is a prison sentence."

The taller guard pointed ahead and noted what appeared to be simply a dark spot in the wall. It was on our right across the tracks. We had to step over the third rail on both sides. Ugh! My dresses only came down to just above the knee, but I held my dress up anyway as I stepped over both times. "That's the entrance into the abandoned line. Since there are absolutely no lights in there, you might make the assumption that the third rail is not electrified. Stay well away from it anyway, just in case." We approached closer and I was unable to see anything beyond the opening area. Pitch black.

"We're going in there?" I asked. I was genuinely unnerved.

"We both have three flashlights," said the taller guard. "The one in the right pocket that we use. The one in the left pocket that is a backup. Both of us have a penlight in the shirt pocket. You don't ever want to get caught down here without a light. You never know when the electricity might go out. There's also a reason besides total darkness that you don't ever want to get caught without a light. You'll find out soon enough."

We entered the abandoned spur line. A few steps in and the darkness enveloped us. I still heard ventilation fans humming, however. Only the feeble light from the flashlights enabled us to see where we were stepping. We kept to the right to avoid the third rail. I heard ominous rustling sounds everywhere around us. Ancient trash was everywhere.

"That sound you hear is the rats retreating from our lights," said the shorter guard. "They're just beyond the lit part of the ground. They're everywhere. They won't go voluntarily into the light. I could suddenly raise my light to let you see them if you'd like."

"I'll pass on that. As long as they retreat from the light, I'm happy."

"The abandoned platforms are all on the right," said the shorter guard. "The first one is a few minutes up ahead."

The rustling sounds just beyond the reach of the flashlights continued. I noticed that there were no feral cats in this tunnel. A trickle of water appeared on the tracks.

"There's a broken water pipe up ahead," said the taller guard. "I have no idea how long it's been spewing. Could be decades."

"What were people doing in this tunnel?"

The two guards looked at each other. The shorter guard decided to answer.

"The transit police cleared the tunnel dwellers out in the 1990s. Not everyone left. A few people retreated deeper into the tunnels into places where the transit police were afraid to go. Such as this tunnel. The people who went into this tunnel never came out. The folklore is that they all died of murine typhus."

"How did they get typhus?"

"Rat fleas. Murine typhus is supposed to be highly treatable, but this happened before the Medicaid expansion. The people in this tunnel tried to sweat it out, and eventually all of them died. The bodies are still here. Don't touch them."

"No warning was needed," I said. "When did people start filtering back into the subway tunnels?"

"A few years ago. The homeless shelters are all full. No housing available. No place to put us except the streets if the transit police evict us. The Democratic mayor has ordered an end to homeless evictions for the time being. Not sure if that applies to abandoned private property."

We trudged ahead kicking aside the trash in front of us as we walked. The rustling sounds of the rats became louder. The taller guard turned his head.

"The first platform is just up ahead. We'll have to pull ourselves up onto the platform. How's your stomach doing?"

"Queasy, but still okay. Let's go."

We reached the platform, and the two guards pulled themselves up. The place was strewn with trash everywhere. No needles from druggies shooting up, though. Praises be. The two guards kicked away all the trash and I pulled myself up onto the filthy platform. I raised my hands in front of my face and stared at the dirt.

"Awww! Princess get dirty?" teased the taller guard.

"I'll take a shower when I get back to Wonderland and have my clothes washed."

I was struck by how little graffiti was on the platform. I kicked trash out of the way as I walked. The two guards led me directly to the bodies. Seven skeletons with every last ounce of flesh gone. Nothing but pure dirty white bone. The taller guard turned toward me.

"It is now 4:15 A.M. The trains start running in one hour and fifteen minutes. We can't go any further into the tunnel if we want to get back to the Worth Street platform. There's not enough room to flatten against the tunnel walls if a train is passing. What do you want to do with the bodies, Princess?"

"Do you have any paper and markers with you?"

"Nope, but there's some paper and markers back on the Worth Street platform."

"I'll be back." I disappeared through a mind portal. Five minutes later I returned with seven sheets of heavy white paper with "Died from Murine Typhus in Tunnels before Medicaid Expansion -Alice" marked on each in medium black marker ink. I placed one sheet on each of the seven skeletons and then dropped each through a mind portal.

"What did you do with the bodies?" asked the taller guard when I was finished.

"I gave them to the governor in his mansion."

End of Chapter 9

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10  
Chapter 10: "Escalation"

Upon getting back home to Wonderland, I only wanted to go to bed to sleep, but first I needed to clean myself up. I took a shower in the outdoor wooden shower stall, put on fresh lingerie and a clean dress, and then took my dirt-smudged dress over to the Gnome laundry. No one was up at that hour, so I simply left my dirty dress and things. I figured I would hear from the Gnome ladies later.

My seven-days-a-week morning chore was to slay two killer mushrooms and chop them up in family-sized chunks for the Gnome open-air market where everyone came to both offer what they had and pick up what they needed. No money ever changed hands as there was no such thing as money in Wonderland. Not even barter. We all did our thing, contributed to the community, and took what we needed. It usually took me about half an hour to select my two victims and kill them, and then it took me another half hour to chop up the two killer mushrooms. Yeah, time-consuming to chop up those two giants.

When I finished my morning chore, I crawled into bed to sleep until I needed to get up at noon again to go to my afternoon job at Bill McGill's distillery. All of Wonderland's brandy was made there. That job was only five days a week. One to five o'clock for me.

"Did you crawl through a garbage dump on hands and knees?" exploded a Gnome lady as I walked to the distillery after snoozing the morning away. I really needed my usual morning nap. More than usual. I looked at the Gnome lady with my best weary expression.

"I took a bunch of subway tunnel dwellers on a grocery store raid and helped them dispose of seven dead bodies that were on a nearby abandoned platform. There was no light, thousands of rats, trash half-a-foot deep, and the only way up on the platform was to pull myself up, plop forwards into all that dirt, get on hands and knees, and then stand up. The seven corpses were the cleanest things in the tunnel. Picked absolutely clean."

"What's a rat?" asked the Gnome lady.

I was caught completely off-guard and unable to respond before she walked away. I mentioned seven dead bodies stripped to the bone and she was wondering what a rat was. Yeah, I was tired.

Four hours of making walnut brandy and I was free for the evening. Free to decide what to do next. I felt that I needed to retaliate for the spreading of dragonfly drones into grocery stores and wondered what was the safest way to retaliate. It suddenly popped into my head that opening a portal from Wonderland to a target area was a very bad idea because of the possibility that a dragonfly drone would fly in through the portal. What a thought! A dragonfly drone loose in Wonderland. I was starting to feel really paranoid and stressed out.

I checked with Hatter to see if the new metal-fabric body suit was ready. It was completed, but Hatter was still testing it and didn't want me using it until he was sure that it was needle-proof. So no metal fabric available yet. I decided to take a trip abroad to a coffee shop so I could use the internet. I had an idea. I spent some time trying to think of a place that seemed risk-free and was unlikely to be crawling with CIA agents posted abroad. Some place out-of-the-way.

I went into my weapons locker where Hatter dumped off both U.S. dollars and foreign exchange for my use. I looked to see what was available. Dollars, euros, British pounds, Mexican pesos, and Cuban convertible pesos. That was it. I picked up 150 British pounds and put them in the leather wallet I kept in my right dress pocket. Edinburgh, Scotland it was! I picked up my old Thinkpad and stuffed it into a laptop bag that I draped diagonally across my chest to make snatching it harder.

I stepped through a mind portal into an area backdropped by the big castle. A wino saw me step through the mind portal and ran terrified down the cobblestone side street. I noticed that he threw his bottle into an uncovered trash can as he ran. I simply wandered around until I found a small coffee shop that was not part of any chain. Free wifi with purchase. Good enough. I stepped into the old brick building and ordered a big glass of orange spice iced tea with no sugar at the highly polished dark wood counter. I made sure I specified no sugar. I didn't want that syrupy glop that you get in southern states in the U.S. The inside of the coffee shop looked spotlessly clean. They had Cadbury's chocolate bars at the front counter and I couldn't resist. Just one bar.

I found myself a table with my back to the wall and looked around to see if there were any tattle-tale mirrors around that would allow the few other people in the coffee ship to see what I was doing. No mirrors! Hallelujah! There were coffee shops in the U.S. that had highly reflective picture frames located behind booths that might as well have been mirrors. I also suspected that at least a few large coffee shops in the U.S. had a tech employee in the back who was watching all of the internet activity on the coffee shop wireless network.

I logged on to the wireless network and began searching for live web cams in Chicago. I was looking for a live web cam that had a good view of the Chicago Federal Reserve Bank. It was remarkably easy to find one. The only problem was that the Chicago Federal Reserve Bank was closely surrounded by other large buildings. I started opening portals deep underneath the bank building while watching for cracks in the facade. It took over a hundred portals to cause the facade to start to crack. People started streaming out the doors looking around to see if it was an earthquake. No earthquake, so they looked confused. I opened my chocolate bar and chewed on it while I waited for the stream of people coming out the front door to end.

When I had finished my chocolate and big glass of orange spice iced tea, there had been no people exiting the front doors for several minutes. I decided to continue opening portals sending cracks spreading throughout the outer walls of the building. People in the streets ran thinking the building was going to collapse. I stopped opening portals under the building because I thought it was too dangerous to collapse the building. The Chicago Federal Reserve Building was completely destroyed and too dangerous to enter to rescue anything. I didn't have to collapse the building to achieve my task.

I ordered a second big glass of orange spice iced tea and wondered if President Trump would get the hint to call off his dragonfly assassin drones. I decided to have dinner in the coffee shop and got a fancy egg salad sandwich to go with my tea. I stared out the window of the coffee shop at the scene of people passing by on the rustic cobblestone street and decided simply to enjoy the moment.

End of Chapter 10

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11  
Chapter 11: "Big Brother at Work"

My need to go uptop to find the latest news made me feel more and more hunted. I traveled uptop only under heavy disguise. I had even dyed my hair blond and had it cut a little shorter. Instead of flowing down past my shoulders, my hair just barely reached my shoulders. I started wearing make-up for trips uptop. I borrowed the make-up from Arianne. She didn't seem to mind at all and even applied the make-up for me.

The coffee shop that I had visited in Edinburgh in Scotland was raided by MI5 agents less than 24 hours after I was there. They snatched all the computers and bullied the owners. Sheesh! Like the owners had anything to do with destroying a building in the U.S. It was on page 2 of the New York Times the next day. I decided not to use anymore coffee shops for a building destruction via web cam.

Still no mention in the U.S. news media of dragonfly drones in homeless encampments. There were little blurbs in local news sections about large, strange-looking insects seen flying around in grocery stores, however. I also saw a few warnings to parents to teach their children not to pick up anything that looked like a dragonfly.

I needed to find another messenger to President Trump, and I felt using former President Obama would be a bad idea because he was almost certain to have been "chipped" with a GPS tracker in anticipation of me snatching him a second time. Each messenger was strictly one use only. Who? While watching TV in a tiny Paris coffee shop, the answer stared me in the face as a Senator who had been with me on the trip through Hell in 2007 was live on screen. I dropped one of my mind portals underneath her and dropped her in a nearby park in a grove of trees not visible to the public. I dashed into the coffee shop restroom and transported myself to the same spot.

"Hello, again," I said. She rolled her eyes in disbelief, but said nothing. I walked her to the edge of the park and pointed to the coffee shop just down the street. "Meet me inside Cafe Indiscret. I'll be sitting in one of the six booths on the left side. There are only ten booths in the entire place." Since I was her only quick means of getting back home, I didn't have to worry about her not showing up. I transported myself back to the bathroom, finished my business, and walked back out to my booth to wait for her. Suddenly I wondered if she would be able to read the sign in French. It was only a few minutes until she entered the coffee shop and sat down in front of me.

"You again," groaned Senator Lisa Murkowski. "What are you going to do me this time?"

"Nothing like the last time. No accidental bath in rage potion to turn me into a monster this time. I need you to take a message to President Trump. Strictly a one-time task. It's not safe for me to use anyone twice."

"Since when have you ever been concerned about safety?"

"Since President Trump turned loose in the homeless encampments and now grocery stores tiny little drones that look like dragonflies and carry an autoinjector needle filled with cyanide. The cyanide is for me."

Senator Lisa Murkowski stared at me with her jaw hanging open. "For robbing grocery stores?"

"Apparently I'm a pain that he just can't tolerate." Senator Murkowski looked genuinely worried.

"President Trump has precisely the same opinion of me because I voted against proceeding to consider the insane Republican bill to take away health insurance from tens of millions of people which would surely kill tens of thousands of people."

"That's why I picked you. One of the very few voices of sanity inside a political party that has gone completely bonkers."

"What's your message? Won't be any trouble for me to deliver it as President Trump is sure to call all of us Republican Senators in for another round of arm-twisting."

"I've already sent President Trump two messages in the form of destroyed government buildings and he has ignored both."

"You destroyed the Federal Reserve Bank in Chicago. I know about that. I saw it in the newspapers. Had to be you. I don't know what the other building was."

"The Utah Data Center of the National Security Agency."

Ms. Murkowski shook her head. "Don't know anything about it. Not in newspapers. Didn't come up in Senate meetings. I'm not in the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence."

"My message is this: pull back the dragonfly drones and announce it publicly or my third attack will involve multiple targets."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Gotta keep it short. I doubt that he can process more than three tiny bits of information at a time."

Ms. Murkowski snorted. "Excuse me. You're actually more generous that I am. The man's a psychopath who's unfit to be president. What he'll do about North Korea keeps me awake at night."

I sighed. "Can't help you with the North Korea problem. Will you deliver my message?"

"Of course. Since we're in Paris, and I haven't any euros, buy me a latte? I'd like to enjoy my brief moment in Paris. This is Paris, isn't it?"

"Of course." I called the waiter over in French and asked for a latte for Ms. Murkowski. I got an iced orange spice tea for myself . No sugar. When the drinks came, we moved to the empty table in front of the window and watched Paris go by. Ms. Murkowski had one question she was burning to ask me.

"When you show up at a homeless encampment, do you always get red-carpet treatment?"

"Homeless encampments are incredibly dangerous places. Some of them are completely, utterly lawless. I'm always hypervigilant when I'm in a homeless encampment. I try to avoid letting people get behind me. The best homeless encampments are organized as a sort of community with elected officials. Also fairly good are smaller encampments that have a sort of unofficial mayor who was the first there and who generally shows newcomers where to get necessities and how to survive."

"What about the worst places?"

"The worst places are all-white homeless encampments in places like eastern Kentucky, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Missouri, Arkansas, and Georgia."

"In other words, Appalachia and the Ozarks mostly."

"Rural Missouri is really bad. I've had people greet me with chants of 'Go back to Russia, communist bitch!' and I've had rocks thrown at me in at least a dozen places. I've been hit in the head with a rock in three places: eastern Kentucky, West Virginia, and rural Missouri. If someone throws a rock at me, I just leave. I've stopped caring about places that give me a hostile reception. I haven't been to eastern Kentucky or West Virginia in years. To put it bluntly, I'm tired. The grocery store raids have been totally ineffective as a means of political protest. Now it's just food. One raid can give a small encampment a chance to stock in a two-month supply of food. It goes faster than you'd think."

"Have you ever thought about just walking away from it all and staying in Wonderland permanently?"

"Every time someone throws a rock at me. Have you ever thought about leaving the Republican Party?"

"Every time I have to sit next to President Trump."

Ms. Murkowski turned her attention to the scene outside the window. Parisians out for a stroll in the evening stopping in at small shops of a type that have all but vanished in the U.S. Across the street was a small bookshop brimming with local flavor which had a steady stream of customers both entering and exiting. A restaurant with sidewalk tables was just down the street. People sat at their tables after meals drinking wine and watching the world go by. Groups of college boys sat at tables together watching young women walk by. I was struck by all the activity in the streets in the evenings.

It was not a bad way to spend the evening. I ordered and paid for two more drinks for us both before I took Ms. Murkowski back to the park to the grove of trees to send her back. She was not bad company.

End of Chapter 11

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12  
"Democracy is when the indigent, and not the men of property, are the rulers." - Aristotle

Chapter 12: "Rain"

The first order of business the next day, after finishing my morning chore, was to check if Hatter had finished testing the metal-fabric suit. He had, and it was ready for me to use. I took my clothes and lingerie off in his testing lab and tried it on. Everything was perfect. The metal-fabric suit included a hood which covered my head except for my face. I folded it up and took it with me back to my bedroom.

The next task was to visit Wonderland's glassworks which was, of course, located right next to Bill's distillery. I asked for a gross - that's 144 - of thin-walled glass bottles that would break easily. It was an unusual request, and the gnomes at the glassworks asked what they were for. "Target practice," I said. It was partly true. I needed something easily breakable for practice at knife-throwing. I didn't want to get rusty in case I ever needed to resort to throwing my bowie knife. My real intent for the thin-walled bottles needed to remain completely secret for the moment.

That night around one o'clock I was woken by the sound of rain pattering on the roof of my house in Pandemonium. Rain in Wonderland means that rain is pouring down in sheets just above Wonderland. It was an opportunity to do a raid without having to worry about those dragonfly drones. I didn't think it would be possible for those things to fly with rain coming down in sheets. I decided to make a quick visit to Arianne's old homeless encampment which was almost directly above Wonderland.

The first thing I noticed was that Hatter's old slow-sand filter for making the creek water drinkable was still in operation. This was surely the only homeless encampment in the United States that had it's own water treatment plant. People still took the effluent and added two drops of plain chlorine bleach to each one-quart or one-liter bottle. There were several men in the encampment who knew how to maintain the sand in the filter. I was impressed.

I was quickly soaked. I looked up to the sky to see the rain coming down in solid sheets. Water splashed my face and ran in my eyes. No, there was no chance that any dragonfly drones were flying around in this. I gathered together the night's raiders, had them grab their gloves and ski masks, and off we went to raid a Cheapmart in Canada.

Considerably less risk of dragonfly drones in a grocery store in Canada, but not impossible, I suppose. No problems with electronics in Canada, either. I noticed that some of the raiders grabbed a Chromebook or two. I, myself, grabbed all the ABC fire extinguishers on the shelves. Maybe 18 total. I knew that I would be needing them in the near future.

Almost immediately after returning from the raid, I noticed a commotion about 25 feet away from me and went to investigate. Everybody was gathered together around what looked like a large insect floundering along the ground. I recognized it immediately.

"You! Go get a glass jar with a lid! Now! Move it!"

I looked around for something to pin it in place with. I didn't want to use the blade of my Bowie knife to pin it knowing that it had a cyanide needle in it waiting to pop out. No large rocks nearby. The one time I needed a large rock and there were none nearby. The teenager I sent after a glass jar returned and I took it from him and placed it over the top of the floundering drone. I slipped the edge of the lid under the glass jar and used the edge of my Bowie knife to slide the lid under the jar. Holding the lid in place with my Bowie knife, I turned the jar upright and turned the lid with my finger on the edge of the lid where I had glass between me and the drone.

"Holy fuck!" exclaimed several observers when the drone stabbed a needle right through the metal lid. I wondered if these people knew about the dragonfly drones yet. People in the larger homeless encampments all knew about the dragonfly drones. There was a sort of network between the larger homeless encampments that passed on information. This group? Maybe they didn't know yet.

"Back everyone! There's cyanide in that needle! You! I need a larger glass jar with a metal lid. And a third glass jar that's even larger if you can find one."

It took about two minutes to get the two larger glass jars. I took the jar holding the drone and slipped it metal lid first inside the middle-sized jar and tightened the metal lid. Then I slipped that jar into the largest jar and tightened that lid. This captured drone was not going into Hatter's lab in Wonderland. I deeply appreciated Hatter's wisdom in encasing that first drone in lucite to render it harmless. This drone was going to the Cuban DI.

With all the excitement surrounding the capture of the assassin drone, no one noticed a young woman burst out of a tent holding a radio in her hand. She quickly realized that the rain would ruin the radio and tossed it back inside the tent. It was around one-forty. "McCain voted no! McCain voted no!" She had tears rolling down her face. At first I didn't know what what was going on. Then I realized. Senator McCain had provided the third Republican "No" vote in the U.S. Senate against tearing Obama's grossly inadequate, but still meaningful, Affordable Care Act to pieces. It meant that Medicaid for all these people and others in the 31 states and District of Columbia that had expanded Medicaid was saved from the possibility of being eliminated in a House of Representatives committee draft bill in the near future. I looked around at the tears of joy being shed throughout the camp and watched as those tears mingled with drenching rain that poured from the heavens.

End of Chapter 12

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13  
Chapter 13: "Havana"

I was not about to take the captured dragonfly drone back to Wonderland out of fear of it escaping, so I took it to a forgotten abandoned subway platform in New York City that was so difficult to get to that it lacked humans, trash, grafitti, and even rats. It had plenty of dust, though. Creepy as an abandoned insane asylum. There was no light at all there, so I used the penlight that I kept in my right dress pocket with my weapons. There was a small office on the platform with a desk. The bottom drawer in the desk was just big enough to hold the triple jars for the dragonfly drone. I would come back for the dragonfly drone the next day. Back home to Wonderland for some sleep.

When evening came, I walked across Wonderland Woods to Hatter's Castle to ask him to accompany me to Havana. Hatter had a direct connection to Cuba's DI. When he made a deal with the Cubans to provide emergency medical care for anyone in Wonderland who needed more than he could offer, he offered the Cubans his expertise in computer programming in return. Hatter ended up becoming a project advisor in the Cubans' development of a national version of Linux for their government computers. It was only a few hours a week. No burden for Hatter at all. The project headquarters was inside the Institute of Cryptography inside the headquarters of the DI. Hatter had a passcard. It amazed me, but he could simply walk in the front door of the Cuban state intelligence agency.

I took Hatter through a portal to the abandoned subway platform where I had stashed the captured dragonfly drone, and he shuddered at the sight of the dark, dusty platform with decaying equipment strewn all about. I extracted the the triply jarred dragonfly drone from the desk drawer and off we went to Havana. No stop for accomodations or anything. Just straight through the front door of the DI.

Hatter had me wait at the front door with our cargo as he walked through. I had no clearance and he needed to talk to some people first. The minutes started to drag and I looked for a place to sit down. None available. I leaned against the wall while I waited. After about fifteen minutes, Hatter appeared at the door with a big grin on his face dangling an ID card for entry on a neck chain just like he had.

"You're in!" he exulted. "You'll never have to wait at the front door again!"

Hatter led the way while I lugged the three glass jars encased inside each other. I worried all the way that I might drop them and break all three jars. When Hatter took me inside a door and motioned to a table, I was more than ready to drop off my cargo. Cuba's leading expert on drone technology was waiting for us. He addressed us in flawless international English.

"It looks like a miniature camera drone. We already have those in Cuba. Your Hatter, however, claims that this drone also carries a weapon in the form of an auto-injector needle containing cyanide. We have nothing like that. I'll take this thing into a sealed room to examine it. Is there anything specific you'd like to know about it?"

"How long will its battery last without light to recharge it?" asked Hatter.

"Good question. Given the small size of this thing, I doubt it can last more than a half hour of flight at the most without any light of sufficient brightness to replenish its charge. I'll test it in a sealed dark room inside a large thick-walled glass case. Anything else you need to know?"

"Any way to disable it or interfere with its function?"

"If I find a way, I'll certainly tell you. Can you both come back in five days?"

"Certainly. Five days it is."

I wasn't too thrilled about having to wait five days for any answers, but I was tickled that someone with access to more equipment than Hatter had was going to study the blasted thing that was making my life uptop an absolute misery. As we exited, I fingered the new ID card hanging around my neck.

End of Chapter 13

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14  
Chapter 14: "I Read the News Today"

Hatter suggested we have dinner at his favorite outdoor cafe in the area. I was wearing a white dress, makeup, and still had my hair dyed blond, but Hatter had no disguise at all and was one of the most easily identified men on Earth. I was a bit concerned about his lack of a disguise, but Hatter insisted there was nothing to worry about.

"We're not in a tourist area. There are plenty of cafes here that take convertible pesos, but that's because of all the embassies in the area. This is embassy row. To the Cubans, embassies equal foreigners with hard currency. They are eager to accomodate."

Hatter led me to a metal chair at a series of tables underneath an awning. I couldn't help but think of Paris. There was a steady breeze coming off the ocean which explained the lack of insects buzzing around the tables. I could see the ocean way down the street. I counted eight tables under the awning in all. Each table had two one-page laminated menus in a clip in the center. Nothing else on the tables at all. On the side of each table was a tag with a number. Each table had three chairs and in front of each chair was a tag with the letter "A," "B," or "C." This was something I had never seen in the United States.

Hatter saw me looking at the numbers and letters. "Very well organized, don't you think? Here comes our server. Don't worry. She'll speak English."

"I can speak Spanish, Hatter. Don't you remember? You and Caterpillar taught me."

The server came to me first.

"And what would the lady like?" I noticed the waitress wink at Hatter.

"Fish tacos and iced hibiscus tea."

"And you, Hatter?"

"Fish tacos and iced oolong tea."

"Your usual."

I heard the waitress whisper "gordita guapa" in Hatter's ear. I sank down into my seat a little. Hatter explained after the waitress left.

"Don't slink down into your chair! That was a compliment. Really. It was. Sit up and throw your chest out. I know you like to do that anyway!"

The waitress came with our food and wanted to take a photo. I cringed, but Hatter assured me all was well. I leaned back in the chair, moved a hip outwards, crossed my legs showing a thigh, and threw my chest out. My "show-off" pose. The waitress took the photo and said she would post it on the walls inside the restaurant with photos of other couples who had visited. I hoped I would go unrecognized. The people I encountered in the Cuban DI building definitely knew who I was. I felt it was only a matter of time before someone noticed the photo in the restaurant and identified me. I decided to change my hair color again and have it cut shorter when I got back to Wonderland.

While we ate, a group of three men finished their meal and left behind a newspaper on their table. Hatter walked over and snatched it with no shame.

"They left it on purpose for someone else to look at. I'll leave it behind on this table when we leave."

I looked at the paper. It was an international English edition of a Canadian newspaper. I cringed at the headlines.

"Now I wish I hadn't looked," said Hatter.

The lead article was about the escalating war of words between President Trump and the North Korean dictator who had threatened to strike Guam. The stock markets had plunged in response. When the stock markets plunge, things are getting serious. The investigation into possible collusion between Trump's campaign committee and the Russians had just resulted in an FBI raid on the home of Trump's former campaign chairman.

At the bottom of the front page was an article revealing that the CIA was operating inside the borders of the United States in violation of its charter. It mentioned two unnamed sources claiming that the CIA was using dragonfly drones armed with cyanide to attempt an assassination of Alice of Wonderland. Bless you Lisa. The secret was finally out.

Congress was in recess, but the congress critters were furious about Trump shooting off his mouth and making the North Korea situation worse. The congress critters also did a lot of hand-wringing over the possibility of a child finding and picking up a dragonfly drone that had exhausted its battery. The word "impeachment" was uttered aloud. Finally. I decided it was time to strike back hard and push President Trump further off-balance. I looked at Hatter.

"I think it's time for my cocktail party."

End of Chapter 14

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 15: Chapter 15  
Chapter 15: "Hair"

As soon as Hatter and I got back to Wonderland, I headed straight to the hair salon in Gnome Village. Bye-bye blond hair! The Gnome ladies in the hair salon were just a wee bit ticked when I asked for auburn hair.

"You want to change your hair color again? You just had it changed!"

"I've been disguising myself when I go uptop. President Trump has been trying to assassinate me. Remember?"

"That's a good reason to change your hair color again. Shouldn't be too difficult to go from blond to auburn. However, don't change your mind again later. Going from auburn to blond would require either growing your hair out to prepare, or using color remover."

"I also want my hair cut even shorter, a pageboy with hair just down to the chin."

"Nobody will recognize you will hair that short. Not even us here in Wonderland."

The gnome hair stylist proceded to cut my hair, and a seamstress walked in carrying three dresses.

"You want to carry these three dresses back to Arianne when we get finished cutting and coloring your hair?"

"Three dresses? Why so many?"

"Look at the size of the dresses. Isn't it obvious? We've been making new dresses for Arianne around every month since Trump got elected. We also make new bras and panties for her about every month. All she does is eat. All day long. Ever since that maniac got elected. She's so big now that empire-waist dresses are all that she can wear. Clearest case of Post-Trump Stress Disorder I've ever seen. She's gained twenty inches around where her waist used to be."

I looked at the dresses. They were almost tent dresses. I knew that Arianne had gotten quite a bit bigger, but this much? It had been a couple of months since we had had one of our love making sessions. I thought we were overdue and decided to make overtures that night. No grocery store raids that night, I thought. I was in the mood for love.

When my hair appointment was over, I carried Arianne's dresses to her bedroom and laid them across her bed and went to collect my gross of bottles from the glassworks. The bottles were in wooden crates with twelve to a crate. I was surprised to see a cork in every bottle. There was a note on top of the crates.

"We figured you might appreciate some stoppers for your target practice."

The gnomes had seen right through me and knew exactly what I was planning to do with the bottles. That saved me a step. No scrounging for bottle stoppers. I already knew what to do for the wicks. I decided to cut up one of my old size two dresses from ages ago to provide the wicks. After all, what was the chance that I would ever fit into a size two dress again? All that was left was to scrounge for alcohol in the distillery, and then swipe some motor oil. I moved the crates one-by-one into my weapons locker via mind portals.

Since it was getting late, I decided to return home. I noticed a light on in Arianne's bedroom and knocked on the door.

"Enter!"

I opened the door and saw Arianne wearing one of the new dresses that I had laid on her bed. It did an excellent job of showing off the avalanche of her cleavage.

"Eyes buried in the cleavage as usual, Alice?"

"I'm going to take a night off from raiding grocery stores. Would you be in the mood for a little night-time entertainment while everyone else is asleep?"

"You're in the mood? It's been awhile. I was beginning to think you had lost interest."

"Now why would I do that?"

Arianne pulled her dress down tight to give me a clear view of the newfound expansiveness of her girth.

"Because I got fat. Because my waist has increased to fifty-four inches. Because my entire body bounces when I walk."

"I'm remembering something I heard a man say a long, long time ago."

"And what is that?"

"Sometimes it's fun to ride a mountain."

"Tonight, then, if you're in the mood. I'm definitely in the mood. It seems the bigger I get, the hornier I get. Must be all that flesh bouncing constantly."

I walked up to Arianne, placed my right hand where her waist once was, gave her a few pats right where I could see her deep-sunken belly button through the dress, put my left hand around her neck, and planted a long, wet kiss on her lips. I gave Arianne my best Cheshire Cat grin as I pulled away from her face.

"I love all of you," I said as I rubbed her bulging belly. "See you tonight." I left unsaid how grateful I was that it was her who got fat and not me.

"Alice!"

"Yes?"

"Nice hair."

End of Chapter 15

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 3

Chapter 16: Chapter 16  
Chapter 16: "An Evening with Arianne"

I sneaked into Arianne's bedroom bearing gifts: a bottle of French wine and a five-pound box of Lindt chocolates. Arianne eyed the chocolates and rolled her eyes.

"Just what I need!" she exclaimed patting her bulging mid-section.

"It's been months since we've done anything," I said. "So let's start off with a little wine." I took two wine glasses out of a paper sack and poured glasses for us both. "Bottoms up!" I said.

Arianne sat on the edge of her bed and drained her glass. I figured I would need to get her a little tipsy to reduce her tension about letting me see her expanded figure naked. She was pretty big the last time, but not like this. I poured a second glass for us both and drained mine in tandem with Arianne. I opened the box of chocolates.

"One for me," I said taking a chocolate and putting it in my mouth. "And one for you." I put the chocolate in Arianne's mouth. She hesitated a moment before chewing and swallowing it. "Another for me," I said putting another in my mouth. "And another for you," I said putting a second piece in Arianne's mouth. We ate about a dozen pieces that way. I poured a third glass of wine for us both which emptied the bottle. I drained my glass and waited for Arianne to drain her glass.

I slipped off my dress, draped it on the chair on my side of the bed, and let Arianne look me over.

"You look the same as you have for quite awhile." Arianne reached over and playfully pinched the roll below my belly button and shook it. "This fat little pooch doesn't bother you?"

"It came with the boobs," I said. "I'd have to starve my boobs off to get rid of it. No way. I'm very fond of having boobs. The pooch is here to stay."

"I wish a little pooch below the belly button was all I had." Arianne slipped off her dress and turned her back to me hinting for me to unclasp her bra. I undid the clasp and Arianne's bra dropped into her lap. She expertly tossed it over the back of her chair. She slipped a pair of granny panties that looked huge to me down over her legs and tossed them into her chair as well. "Now your turn," said Arianne. "Off with the bra and panties."

I turned my back around to Arianne to let her unclasp my bra. It fell into my lap and I pitched it onto the chair on my side of the bed. I slipped my bikini brief off and tossed it onto my chair as well. At this point, all Arianne and I had on was socks. I turned around and lay sideways on the bed placing my head on the left-side pillow. Arianne turned around and gave me a moment to take in the changes that had occurred in her body.

"What a pair!" I involuntarily blurted out as I got a look at Arianne's breasts. They stuck out like a pair of American footballs. They were propped up by the potbelly down below.

"They're J-cups now. You may like the way they look, but they do feel heavy. Not sure if I like them or not. In a dress, they do draw attention away from what's down below."

I looked at Arianne's "down-below." Just when Trump was elected, Arianne was all boobs, hips, thighs, and ass. Her stomach was almost flat, only slightly rounded. She was a rather big girl, but she was a perfect hourglass. Five feet two and 175 pounds. F-cup breasts. She was not obese at all. That was ten months ago.

Arianne stood up to let me see her body. She had what looked like a shelf just below her breasts. Arianne winced and pulled her breasts up to let me see. She looked like she was ten months pregnant except for the belly button. Arianne's belly button was sunk deep into a sinkhole. There were no stretch marks and there was no cellulite. I wondered how she had managed to avoid stretch marks.

I noticed that there was an almost invisible seam on the sides of her belly which marked where her body actually ended and the belly fat piling up started. I estimated a foot between the seam and the sinkhole to her belly button. I pressed my hands into the sides of her belly to see how much it squished - not much - and then cupped it from underneath. It was heavy to lift. The lowest part was pure jello. Arianne had a big, firm potbelly. There was no sagging. "How could you do this to yourself, Arianne?" I thought. Needless to say, I didn't say that aloud.

"That big belly is so perfectly rounded and sticks out so far that it looks downright erotic," I said.

"You mean you like it? You can't be serious."

"It's bad for your health, but on a purely aesthetic scale, it's a work of art. It almost looks like it's glued on to your stomach."

"I thought you'd take one look and walk out."

"It's actually quite magnificent." I clapped Arianne on the sides of her belly with both hands and gave her a big grin. "I'd love to have a painting of you nude by Mr. White. Classic Odalisque pose." I was trying to be nice.

"If it's so magnificent, then why don't you take it and let me have my flat stomach back."

I jerked my head back. "I wouldn't dare get this big. It would slow me down in combat." I hesitated as I took a few steps to see Arianne's body from different angles. I was thinking that I would give up chocolate and alcohol both to avoid getting that big. I felt a little ashamed as the thought "Better her than me!" passed through my head.

"Do you feel a little turned on?" asked Arianne, slurring her words.

"Horny as an unspayed indoor cat." I pushed Arianne on her back and I methodically began. Just on the underside of her belly just above her crotch, I began licking Arianne's mountain of flesh while she moaned with pleasure. The flesh gave way a bit to my tongue. Slowly, gradually, around the jiggly underside and then up the steep mountain to her belly button. I gave her little cat licks around the belly button and then worked my way slowly to her breasts. The flesh above her belly button had no give at all. Arianne began to sweat. I kept working my way up.

I reached a hand down to her crotch and slowly, gently, worked three fingers in and massaged to the rhythm of me riding the ocean of excess flesh piled up deep on her stomach. I had to use my knees to keep my balance. It took six minutes, and then Arianne shrieked. The underside of her belly quivered for a few moments. It was over for Arianne.

"Now my turn?" I asked.

"Just a moment." Arianne turned and walked to the bathroom. I watched her belly bounce with each step she took. I wondered how much of a burden a belly that size was. I cringed. I heard her washing her hands.

Arianne came back and reached for the box of chocolates. Most of the chocolates were still in the box. Arianne placed the box of chocolates on the bed to her right and placed her belly on top of mine and began to ride me. Her belly squashed on top of me and spilled like a very warm electric blanket all over me. She tried to poke the chocolates into my mouth, but I refused them.

Arianne shrugged, started riding me, and gave me three fingers one-by-one. It took only about three minutes for me. I was always the easy one.

I rolled over facing Arianne and drifted off to sleep. Arianne was on her back. Her belly rose up toward the ceiling like a mountain range. I marveled at how her beautiful Maria-Bartiromo-like face was untouched by all the weight she had gained. My concerns of Trumpland faded away into the otherland of dreams.

End of Chapter 16

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights.

Version 4

Chapter 17: Chapter 17  
"Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich." - Napoleon Bonaparte

Chapter 17: "Recipe for a Molotov Cocktail"

The time had come. It was evening in Wonderland and I needed a few bottles of motor oil. I looked in my weapons locker at the foreign currencies available and found no Canadian dollars. There were some Mexican pesos. Good enough. Mexico City it was. Good thing I could speak Spanish. It didn't take me long to find an "auto partes" store there. Four one-liter containers of motor oil. No eyebrows raised. I handed over the pesos, collected my change, and off I went. Just another customer. I left the motor oil in my weapons locker.

Next I needed alcohol. I went over into the distillery to look around. Everyone had gone home, so I had the place to myself. Nothing locked. Zero security. So unlike the world above. I thought of the Second Law of Wonderland: "Take What You Need." I looked around and found a barrel of Gnome moonshine that seemed unwanted. Powerful stuff: 140 proof. Perfect for a Molotov Cocktail.

I dropped a table and a barrel mount through a portal onto the cement floor of my weapons locker and then went there to set up the table and mount. Back to distillery. I dropped the Gnome moonshine barrel through a portal onto the floor of my weapons locker. Back to the weapons locker. I set up the barrel mount on top of the table. I stared at the barrel of moonshine. I was going to have to lift the barrel into place myself. I would have been stymied if I hadn't the strength of the "Queen of Hearts" even in normal form. I gritted my teeth and hoisted the barrel up into place on the mount. I needed a spigot.

Back to the distillery supplies room. Found a clean spigot and mallet. Back to the weapons locker. Since no one was going to drink the moonshine, I did not bother to clean the bung. I held the spigot against the bung in the barrel and gave it two soft raps and then one hard rap. Moonshine spurted out onto the floor and headed for the drain as I whacked the spigot into place. All set up.

I pulled the wooden crates of breakable glass bottles out near the table and pulled the stoppers out. I uncapped the bottles of motor oil and proceded to pour about a tablespoon of motor oil into each of the bottles. I emptied two of the bottles of motor oil and part of a third bottle. Then I filled each bottle with moonshine and put the cork stopper back in. That took awhile. Next I needed the wicks.

I pulled an old size two dress out of a storage trunk in the house in Pandemonium. I held up the dress and marveled that I was ever that tiny. Then I remembered how unpleasant it was to be skinny, curveless, and constantly mistaken for a teenaged boy. I ran my hands up and down my rounded hips and bottom and could not help myself.

"Thank God for chocolate!"

With no nostalgia whatsoever, I proceeded to cut the dress up into strips to provide wicks for the Molotov Cocktails. I dumped my treasure in two shoe boxes and dropped myself through a portal back into my weapons locker. I unstopped each bottle, inserted the wick, and restoppered it. One by one with 144 bottles. I was tired when it was done. The only thing left to do was soak the wicks in alcohol. That would wait until I was at my attack location. I was not about to carry out an attack from Wonderland just in case a dragonfly drone flew in through a portal. Yes, I was that antsy.

One final task was to gather pictures of my target locations. Magazines love to feature photo essays of the homes and businesses of the wealthy. So convenient for me. I would have to go to a public library for that. I decided that a university library full of students would be my best bet for an extensive selection of periodicals. Instead of using computers to do my searches, which would surely show up in an NSA database somewhere, I decided to do my searches the old fashioned way using the end-of-year indexes that periodicals do in the bound annuals that they sell to libraries. "Fuck you, NSA!" I thought.

I was too tired that night to do any more preparation. Or any raids. The library searches, I thought, would have to wait until another day.

End of Chapter 17

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

The "recipe" for a Molotov Cocktail is easily available on the internet, including at Wikipedia. Remember that the NSA is watching. Please don't anyone get the idea of making a Molotov Cocktail at home. Remember that almost every home has at least one appliance that uses a pilot light. Your water heater probably has a pilot light. If you make a Molotov Cocktail, drop it near a pilot light or other ignition source, and the glass breaks, you will turn into a human torch. To further discourage you, I urge you to create a new tab in your web browser, Google "burn victim," and hit the images tab. If that doesn't discourage you from making a Molotov Cocktail, I don't know what else will. Don't be an idiot. -Nikki Little

Chapter 18: Chapter 18  
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass... and I'm all out of bubblegum." -Nada in John Carpenter's "They Live"

Chapter 18: "Humpty-Trumpty"

My morning chore done, I decided that the best place to look for the kinds of magazines that I needed to get pictures of my targets was a U.S. university library. A Canadian university library would have been safer, but I doubted that it would have complete sets of the magazine titles that I needed. I needed the photographs because I couldn't create portals to places that I had never seen.

I pulled Hatter's metal-fabric suit out of my dresser and laid it on my bed. I took off my lingerie and squirmed into the suit. I wondered how long it had been since I had been measured for the metal fabric suit and soon got my answer. Oof! The suit was a bit tight through the hips. I walked around in the metal-fabric suit and decided that it was tolerable and finished getting dressed. I left the hood down where it was hidden under my dress. I applied mascara and a tiny bit of powdered minerals to my face to make me harder to recognize. Off to the main library of Ohio State University in Columbus with my laptop bag to blend in. I took one hundred dollars in cash and dozens of bookmarks with me. I did not take a laptop computer with me. I didn't want to risk having it stolen. I locked my bedroom door before leaving. The lock was new to prevent anyone from walking in on me during sex. Arianne had one, too.

I pulled my usual trick of placing my entrance portal in an obscure area and walked to the library. The place was packed with students and it took me some searching to find a study carrel that was empty. I draped my empty laptop bag over the back of the chair to claim the space. That was a common way to mark a carrel that was in use.

I disappeared into the stacks to search the Southern Living magazines first and found around a third of what I needed. Unique Homes, Upscale Living, Forbes Life, and Robb Report contained the rest. I tossed the annuals onto my carrel one-by-one with a bookmark at the appropriate article. The last target took me about half an hour of searching through indexes in the stacks to find.

When I came back, my laptop bag was missing. Fuck! At least the jerk didn't get anything with the laptop bag. It was empty except for my bookmarks, and some paper, pens, and pencils. I had to hold my 16 magazine annuals when I walked through a mind portal back into my locked bedroom. I had not seen or heard anything that resembled a dragonfly while in the library. I decided to carry out my "cocktail party" that night. I was more than a little relieved to get out of that tight metal-fabric suit.

At one o'clock in the morning, I awoke, put on my metal-fabric suit, and got dressed. My attack site was an abandoned hotel located in the post-industrial wastelands of Detroit. An easy place to abandon in case a dragonfly drone flew in through a portal. I chose a room on the top floor twelve stories up where the squatters and drug dealers almost never appeared. I had been there before.

I looked out the shattered window with no curtains at the decaying abandoned factories to my left and partially collapsed empty homes to my right. Moonlight flooded into the room via the window to frost everything in an eerie silvery glaze. The room itself was full of dust with a made bed that obviously hadn't been touched since the hotel had closed. The furniture was shrouded in dust and the carpet spewed up clouds with my every step. I coughed and remembered that I hadn't caught any illnesses from all the debris in the air the last time I had been in this room. I hoped my luck would hold this time. The shattered window allowed some fresh air to blow into the room. I locked the decrepit deadbolt lock in the door and shoved the bed up against the door both to provide additional security and to create an empty space in the middle of the room.

The room had sprinklers visible in the ceiling, but there was no water in the bathroom. I suspected that the sprinklers had been nonfunctional for at least a decade. I flashed myself via mind portal back to my weapons locker to pick up three fire extinguishers. Just in case. The hotel might have been abandoned, but I sure didn't want to set it on fire.

I flashed the fire extinguishers back to the hotel room and then walked to my bedroom to pick up a pewter candlestick, a fresh candle, and the sixteen magazine annuals with target photographs. I flashed the candlestick and the candle back to the hotel room. Then I dragged out the magazine annuals, arranged them in attack order, and flashed them back to the hotel room. Then I needed matches. I found a packet of old-fashioned wooden kitchen matches in the kitchen of my house in a metal cabinet drawer. Back to my weapons locker to pick up the cases of Molotov Cocktails. One by one I flashed them to the hotel room floor.

I needed alcohol to soak the wicks of the Molotov Cocktails. I got a glass from my kitchen and filled it with moonshine from the barrel in my weapons locker. I walked through the mind portal back into the hotel room and took stock of what I had. Cocktails - check. Alcohol for wicks - check. Candle - check. Matches - check. Fire extinguishers - check. Photographs of targets - check. Everything was in the hotel room.

Last task to prepare. I proceeded to soak the wicks of every Molotov Cocktail in the moonshine in the glass. I needed to go back to my weapons locker several times to refill the glass with moonshine. I unpacked the first case of twelve Molotov Cocktails and set them up on the carpet for lighting the wicks. Finally. All ready.

I found the annual with photographs of my first target: President Trump's Mar-a-Lago Resort. I laid it open next to the Molotov cocktails. I reached into my right dress pocket, pulled out my shrunken head of the Duchess weapon, and pitched it into the various rooms of the resort hoping to send everyone inside fleeing before I tossed in any Molotov Cocktails. The shrunken head of the Duchess, after a few bounces on a floor, emitted a foul-smelling black cloud of non-toxic, but hallucinogenic gas that had people seeing monsters after one whiff. People always ran. Every single time.

After my last toss of the shrunken head, I returned to the first photograph, lit the wick of the first Molotov cocktail, opened a portal beneath it, and dropped it through a portal near the ceiling into the target room. I briefly opened a portal just to see that the Cocktail had ignited. It had. I proceeded to ignite the wicks of the remaining Molotov Cocktails from the case of twelve and drop them from ceiling height into the target rooms. I was very glad that I had had the Gnomes make the glass bottles thin-walled and fragile. This ensured very few Cocktails hitting the floor without exploding.

After this, I proceeded to do the same for each of my succeeding targets. Twelve lit Molotov Cocktails through mind portals dropped from ceiling height into target rooms after clearing them first with the shrunken head of the duchess. All of my targets were properties owned by President Donald Trump. I hit none of his apartment buildings, however. Too difficult to clear everyone out of apartment buildings, I and didn't want to hurt uninvolved people.

It dawned on me that I was surely the world's sorriest excuse for a terrorist: always worrying about accidentally killing someone. My goal was the destruction of property and only the destruction of property in hopes of achieving political goals.

I was successful. Sitting in a twenty-four-hour coffeeshop in London, I saw on a TV tuned to CNN that the entire Trump family had boarded a private jet and were winging their way to political asylum in Saudi Arabia while the twelve properties that I had targeted, and numerous other U.S. properties owned by rich people, were burning to the ground. Homeless mobs were shown hurling their own Molotov Cocktails at the properties of the rich. Without the safety factor of me clearing the targets of people first. I winced. News commentators wrung their hands that revolution had come to America.

End of Chapter 18

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

I did not provide a complete list of target properties in this chapter because doing so might land me in a court room for creating a "hit list." The United States is full of crazy prosecutors who will drag people into a court room for almost anything. Even fanfiction.

-Nikki Little on August 21, 2017

Chapter 19: Chapter 19  
"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce." - Karl Marx

Chapter 19: "American Gulag"

I did my morning chore early and crawled into bed. Sleep. Blessed peaceful sleep. I got up at noon to prepare for my four-hour shift at Bill McGill's distillery, and counted the minutes before I could leave and crawl back into bed. Sleep. Blissful sleep. I had forgotten to eat lunch. Didn't care. No appetite for dinner. Didn't care. I only desired to sleep. I slept straight through from that evening all the way until the next morning. I showered, got dressed, and stumbled to the Gnome bar for a breakfast of scrambled eggs.

The Gnome bar had a communal breakfast of scrambled eggs and fresh fruit that was attended every morning mostly by the bachelors among the Gnomes. Cheshire and I were frequent visitors. A radio tuned to one of the three AM stations that could reach Wonderland was almost always playing. Usually a news broadcast.

I walked up to a small table with Cheshire sitting alone, and sat down. News from the radio blared. Cheshire looked up with scrambled eggs smeared all over his face and gave me his classic morning smile and a purr.

"Hello, Cat. Care for some company?"

"But of course," he purred. "Better get your eggs while this batch is still hot."

I walked up to the counter and picked up a plate of eggs and a glass of iced cranberry juice. The news blared from the radio. I wasn't listening really, and only sensed the chaos from the broadcast.

"You've sure stirred up a hornet's nest," purred Cheshire. "It's always been what you do best."

"I already know that Trump is gone. He was on a private jet to Saudi Arabia the last I heard."

"Quite a few state governors have declared martial law to deal with the homeless mobs copycatting what you did to Trump's properties. If there's one person in a mob identified, then National Guard troops are sent in to that homeless encampment to arrest everyone. There are mass arrests of homeless people in close to a dozen states. Doesn't matter if the governor is a Republican or Democrat. Public defenders are trying to plea-bargain everyone into five years in prison for rioting and arson. People are being threatened with life in prison if they go to trial. When rich people's homes are burning, legal rights fly out the window."

"This all happened yesterday while I was mostly sleeping?"

"Yesterday and right now. It's still happening. There's something funny about it all, though."

"What's funny about being threatened with life in prison?"

"None of the states has enough room in the prisons for so many people. I wonder how long it will take the politicians to figure that out."

"Has there been any mention of dragonfly drones operating in the U.S. being returned to their bases?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was listening for that. I thought for sure that Pence would make that one his first orders. Congress is currently tied in knots arguing over CIA operations inside U.S. borders. That's how the media is referring to the dragonfly drones loose inside U.S. borders."

"So it's still unsafe for me uptop."

"Yup. You'd think Pence would be worried about his own family's house. Are you going to do a raid tonight?"

"I'll listen to the weather broadcasts on the radio and look for a place getting drenching rains. The drones can't operate in a hard rain. If everyplace is clear, I may just skip doing any raids. I'm burned out. I can't do two a night anymore."

Cheshire licked the eggs off his face. "Have you ever considered just taking a vacation? Just stop going uptop for a few weeks. Get a full night's sleep. Do some things for yourself. Check out what's available in Hatter's Library. It's quite extensive. Read something. When's the last time you read a book? Hatter often spends evenings in his library reading and drinking tea. He knows how to live."

I listened to the radio blaring from the counter of the Gnome Bar. There were recordings of mobs of demonstrators chanting "Trump! Trump! Trump!" The news announcer mentioned that conspiracy theories were running wild that President Trump had been the victim of a CIA coup d'etat. I looked at Cheshire in amazement.

"People actually think that the CIA got rid of President Trump? Don't they know about Trump turning the CIA and their dragonfly drones loose on me? You'd think it would be obvious who burned all those Trump properties. Who besides me had the motive?"

"Trump's supporters are not well-informed. They don't read newspapers and what little news they get is from FOX."

"All that loyalty after he tried to take their Medicaid away? Trump's diehards are such blithering idiots they take my breath away."

That evening, after finishing from my shift in the distillery and eating dinner in the distillery cafe, I found four five-pound boxes of chocolates on my bed with a note from Arianne.

"Get them out of my sight. Lock them up in your weapons locker. Put them anyplace that has a lock. I don't care. Next time I see Lindsay, I'll tell her to dump her boxes of chocolates on you. I sure don't need them."

I stared at the chocolates, sighed, and opened a portal to my weapons locker. I found an empty space on a shelf and shoved them in. When I returned to my bedroom, I got out my annuals with target pictures and looked at the four volumes that I hadn't used yet. One was of abandoned Soviet sculptures. I found one of an abandoned metal hammer and sickle that was out in the middle of nowhere in Siberia. It was small enough to shove through one of my portals and store in my weapons locker. Good enough.

A quick trip to Siberia and I had my small metal hammer and sickle sculpture. I knew just what to do with it. I wondered if the Russians would ever miss it.

That night, instead of doing a raid, I doused the metal hammer and sickle sculpture in moonshine, found a long pole and a box of matches, and then pushed the sculpture through a portal back to its original location. I went through the portal with the sculpture, matches, and the long pole. Then I lit the sculpture and pushed it with the pole through another portal to the driveway of Mike Pence's home in Indiana. No dragonfly drones came screaming through the portal. The sculpture didn't make a large fire, just a low blaze sort of like a campfire. Photographs of it that showed up on the internet made clear that it was an awesome sight in the middle of the night.

I went back to my weapons locker, ripped open a box of chocolates, washed my hands, and helped myself to a small portion. I was thinking that I could get a cyanide dart in the face at any time. "Live for today," I thought. It took me two weeks to finish that first box. By the end of two months, I had finished all four boxes. My metal fabric suit fit a little tighter, but my clothes all still fit the same as always. Arianne and Lindsay both noticed differences, but I didn't care about the differences. I was tickled to still be alive.

End of Chapter 19

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20  
Chapter 20: "Return to Havana"

Hatter led the way to the Cuban DI. We both bounded up the steps, swiped our cards, and walked in the front door. No one challenged us. Hatter led me through the hallways to the same office as before. The drone specialist that we had met the last time was busy examining a thick report. He turned to me and spoke in that same flawless international English.

"Welcome back! Before we get to business, can we discuss recent events? I was quite surprised that President Trump abandoned ship so quickly. He could have stayed holed up in that bunker below Washington D.C. with his family until the end of his term."

The entire U.S. federal government - executive branch, legislative branch, and judicial branch - had retreated to a gigantic bunker underneath Washington D.C. back in 2009 after I had thrown the Angel's Sword into the outer wall of the United States Capitol building where the U.S. Senate meets. They were all scared to death of me and maintained very strict security: no cameras, camera-type devices, or anything with a web cam allowed in the bunker. Not a single known photograph or video of the bunker existed, so I had no way in.

"Trump knew that I would burn every property he owned to get him out. He didn't care if I destroyed U.S. government property as it wasn't his, but his own property was a different matter."

"Some of Trump's properties that you targeted had sprinkler systems. And yet they still burned. How did that happen?"

"Sprinkler systems aren't designed to handle arson attacks. They don't handle explosions well, either. A dozen Molotov Cocktails in a dozen different locations in the space of a single minute were sufficient to overwhelm the sprinkler systems. That's why I used a dozen Molotov Cocktails at every attack site. I intended to overwhelm any sprinkler systems that might have been installed. Most of my targets were not commercial properties which might explain why they burned so quickly. Trump knew that it was impossible to protect his properties from me. That's why he abandoned ship so quickly. Apparently it was not acceptable with the CIA for Donald Trump to protect his own personal properties with dragonfly drones. I lucked out. No dragonfly drones came screaming through my attack portals. I was ready to abandon my attack site in the blink of an eye."

"Well, so far, the U.S. government has not announced a withdrawl of dragonfly drones operating inside U.S. borders. They have not announced any cessation of CIA activities inside U.S. borders yet, either. Representatives and Senators are still at each others throats over the issue. Pence has not been sworn in as actual President yet. He's still the acting President. He's been insisting on actual written resignation from Donald Trump."

"Still unsafe for me uptop inside the U.S., then?"

"And possibly in other countries as well. I hesitate to speculate any further."

"Surely no one is crazy enough to send those things into North Korea and risk sparking a nuclear war?"

"Even the Russians have no intelligence available on that. Cross your fingers and pray for sanity."

"What about the dragonfly drones. Anything new to tell me?"

"The dragonfly drones are inactive in darkness because flight drains their batteries quickly. Very quickly. Bright moonlight slows down the drain considerably. The solar paneling in the wings picks up any kind of light. These things can operate in conditions of bright moonlight combined with light from streetlamps. I would say that it's unsafe for you to enter homeless encampments except during a hard, driving rain. Even when there's no moonlight at all, dragonfly drones can maintain battery power with the light from streetlamps."

"I kind of expected that. Solar calculators will work with light from interior lights."

"And now something you never expected. That dragonfly device that you brought in was different from the device that your Hatter described in his lab. The device you brought in had no wireless card for sending or receiving. It had a much larger processor, an iris recognition scanner, and was a completely self-contained artificial intelligence."

I'm sure I had a blank look on my face. Hatter spoke up to explain the significance of what the Cuban drone specialist had just said.

"He's saying that the device we brought in was a robot, not a drone."

"Correct, Hatter," said the Cuban drone specialist. "The device is an assassin robot. Or a 'terminator' if you prefer to use a term from a science fiction movie from 1984."

I'm sure my jaw hit the floor. The Cuban drone specialist slapped me on the back.

"Cheer up! The dragonfly terminators are very easy to defeat. All you have to do is wear these contact lenses with an alternate iris pattern built into the lens to be safe." The Cuban drone specialist pulled a case containing contact lenses and solutions out of a desk drawer. He motioned for me to take them. "Unfortunately, there is no quick fix for the dragonfly drones with human operators. I doubt if there are more than 100 of those, however. The bigger of the two threats to you is easy to defeat."

"If the dragonfly terminators identify me with an iris scan, then that means that the U.S. government has my iris pattern. How could they have gotten that?"

"They probably got it during one of your department store raids," said Hatter. "An iris scan can be carried out from as much as ten feet away. Probably stuck the scanner in front of the chocolate counter."

"Very funny, Hatter! You're so funny!" He was probably right. Saks Fifth Avenue had probably booby-trapped all their candy counters with an iris scanner waiting for me to filch some chocolate. Damn.

The Cuban drone specialist indicated to Hatter that he had no more useful information for me, and Hatter gestured for me to follow him. On the way out, Hatter had a suggestion.

"Let's get dinner here again. I have the convertible pesos to pay. Don't worry!"

Same cafe. Same waitress. When she saw me, I heard her whisper to Hatter, "La gordita, otra vez? Es amor!" I sank down into my chair. The waitress brought me one-fourth of a chocolate cake for dessert without me even asking. Hatter laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Laugh it up, Hatter. Wait until we get back to Wonderland. I'm going to tell Lindsay that you took me out for dinner. Even bought me dessert!"

I grabbed the cake and started eating it. Took me four minutes to finish it. It was kind of dry and had minimal icing. I ate it because it was chocolate. Hatter squirmed and squirmed while I ate the cake. I love it when men are afraid of their wives.

End of Chapter 20

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21  
"Democracy is a con game... in a truly free nation, no one has to tell you you're free." - Jacque Fresco

Chapter 21: "Dead White Girl"

I never did tell Lindsay that Hatter was taking me out to dinner on our excursions to Cuba. I think she already knew and didn't really mind as she did not consider me to be a threat. When Hatter's birthday rolled around, Lindsay and I got together to give Hatter a unique birthday gift. With Lindsay playing the piano, I serenaded Hatter with Bob Seger's "Beautiful Loser." When I sang the lines about "your oldest and your best friend" who would always "be there again" whenever needed, Hatter burst into tears. He may have had a face from Rod Serling's Night Gallery, but he really was a beautiful soul. Even Lindsay could see that.

After the departure of Donald Trump and his family for Saudi Arabia, Hatter sent Arianne over to Pale Realm for a much-needed vacation. It was a stroke of genius because everyone in Pale Realm ate their meals with the White King at his communal dining hall. There were three meals a day in Pale Realm, and that was it. For Arianne, it was practically a "fat farm." Maybe she would learn how to eat properly again there. According to the Gnomes who worked at Hatter's water treatment plant, Hatter was practically cackling with pride at his deviousness. Lindsay was tickled at his genius too, and even had sex with Hatter without any begging on his part for once.

I gave up boxed chocolates entirely. Two more five-pound boxes of chocolates and I think I would have burst my dresses. Any boxes that Lindsay dumped on me got dumped in homeless encampments. Let the skinny homeless kids eat the fattening chocolates. They needed them. I stuck to half a bar of plain milk chocolate per day. Valrhona, if I could get it.

Acting President Pence did not recall the dragonfly devices. My salvation came from a terrible accident. In one of the largest homeless encampments in California, I spotted a dragonfly hurtling straight toward me and made no effort to determine whether it was an insect or a device. I dropped myself through a portal out of the way and did not return to the homeless encampment. I found out from the news media two days later that there had been a seventeen-year-old girl behind me which was completely unknown to me at the time. I have long tried to avoid having people behind me in homeless encampments. I have had rocks thrown at me a few too many times to be trusting of people I can't see.

The girl got the cyanide dart in the stomach. Now if she had been black or brown, the story probably would have been buried deep in the news section of the New York Times, and only briefly mentioned on cable news. The girl had blond hair, blue eyes, a slim athletic figure, and a face like the young actress Dakota Fanning. It was dead white girl on cable news twenty-four hours a day seven days a week for the next six weeks. Her high school junior portrait was everywhere. Even Fox News jumped on the outrage train.

I suppose I was lucky that the news media didn't blame me for the accident. The drone operator had screwed up. He should have pulled the drone up the instant I looked at it. He should have known that I'd disappear through a portal. It happened on Mike Pence's watch, so he got impeached. Congress ordered an end to all CIA operations taking place inside the U.S. Republicans and Democrats united on this one. Nothing like a dead pretty young white girl to bring everybody together. I could breathe a sigh of relief, but the guilt hung over me like a cloud of mosquitoes in a swampy field.

No one in the homeless encampments seemed to blame me for the accident. Many seemed to recall me lecturing people never to walk behind me. They didn't know the reason why, but they knew I didn't like having people out of my sight around me. Many wrongly assumed that what had happened to the girl was the precise reason why I snapped at people not to walk behind me. I kept quiet about the real reason.

A few months after the dead white girl incident, life for me returned to an uneasy normality. The dragonfly devices were gone, but the political situation that had led to them remained. A new presidential election had been called, and it was obvious, painfully obvious, that the Democratic primary was once again rigged in favor of a status quo candidate. The Democrats had learned nothing from the debacle of the 2016 elections.

I held a few more "cocktail parties" at the mansions of billionaires. I targeted only the billionaires who pushed hard-right politics with avalanches of "dark money." I drove out of the U.S. the horrid funders of the Cato Institute and the Heritage Foundation. Watching CNN in tea shops in Britain, I waved good-bye at the TV screens when they and their families were shown boarding flights out of the U.S.

I continued to burn small old Soviet hammer and sickle sculptures in the driveways of billionaire's mansions. It was the one symbol that scared the rich to death. I did spare a few of the billionaires from the burning spectacle in the driveway. Not all of the billionaires were horrible people. The Russians seemed to be amused that I had found a use for their abandoned Soviet-era sculptures.

I did think about what the hammer and sickle represented. As repressive as Soviet-style communism had been, once Stalin was dead, most of the Soviet bloc countries had a better record on human rights than the United States. Nobody starved or went homeless in the Soviet bloc. What had happened throughout Eastern Europe since Soviet-style communism had collapsed proved that western capitalism was worse than Soviet communism. Meanwhile, in Latin America, the Cuban Revolution was still a symbol of hope for the destitute. For Latin Americans, the hammer and sickle was Fidel.

I, myself, was no communist at all. I had long been an advocate of the high-tech Venus Project, but almost no one knew that. I thought that advanced automation should be used for the benefit of all to abolish the ankle chains of money on the human race. In a world of automation-created abundance, there would no longer be any excuse to deny anyone a basic necessity, or even modest luxuries.

I was a realist. I knew that the Venus Project had no hope of ever being brought to fruition in a capitalist society. The rapaciousness of the one-percenters was undeniable. The Venus Project would have to evolve from a Marxist-Leninist dictatorship.

The Trotskyists of the world claimed me as one of their own, and I did nothing to discourage them even if I wasn't one of them. If the rich thought that I was a communist revolutionary, then good. I even allowed the Mexican press to photograph me placing flowers at Trotsky's tomb in Mexico City. It was strictly for show. The more the rich feared me, the better chance I had of being left alone when I led ransackings of grocery stores.

In 2032, the government successfully ambushed me in a grocery store raid. Hatter took me to the emergency room of Hermanos Ameijeiras Hospital in Havana with 104 bullet holes in me. Only the rage potion my body produced kept me alive. The first six bullets went completely through my chest before the rage potion made me almost impervious to the rest. Everyone in the world uptop thought that I was dead because I had disappeared for over six months. The year of revolution had finally come, and for that story, dear reader, you'll have to read "Wastelands," because this story of the Dragonflies has finished.

The End

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22  
Chapter 22: Sources Consulted

From www dot nycsubway dot org

"Station: City Hall (IRT East Side Line)"

From www dot rhizomes dot net slash issue25 slash ferrell slash

"The Underbelly Project: Hiding in the Light, Painting in the Dark"

by Jeff Ferrell

From www dot thrillist dot com

"New York City's Most Insane Abandoned Subway Stations"

By Nina Stoller-Lindsey

From www dot urbanghostsmedia dot com

"10 Abandoned Subway Stations and Forgotten Subterranean Platforms of New York City"

By Morris M

From www dot freetoursbyfoot dot com slash city-hall-subway-station slash

"How to Visit NYC's Abandoned City Hall Subway Station"

By Courtney Shapiro

Wikipedia: Pilot Lights

From Hunker dot com

"Dryers made after 1994 have an electronic ignition to light the dryer for use."

Wikipedia: Slow Sand Filter

From haircolor dot wikia dot com slash wiki slash Hair_Education:_Coloring_over_pre-exisiting_color

"Hair Education: Coloring over pre-exisiting color"

Wikipedia: Molotov Cocktail

Wikipedia: Iris Recognition

An Assessment of the Performance of Automatic Sprinkler Systems

by J. Kenneth Richardson, P. Eng.

From www dot azlyrics dot com

Bob Seger Lyrics: "Beautiful Loser"

From Google dot com

All quotes found using Google search engine

From Google dot com images tab

"Venus Project" - Dragonfly book cover

"Welcome to Hell: The Real America" - graffiti image

"We Own the Night" + Graffiti + New York City - graffiti image

Worth Street Station + New York City - photographs

YouTube Video

"Cascade Barrel House: Live from the Barrel Tapping"

YouTube Video

"Abandoned NYC Subway Stations and Platforms" from "TotalBoogeymenH2Oplus" channel

YouTube Video

"Abandoned Worth Street Station" from "Gritty NYC" channel

YouTube Video

"USA: NEW YORK: "MOLE PEOPLE" SEEKING SHELTER IN RAILWAY TUNNELS" from "AP Archive" channel

YouTube Video

"Abandoned City Hall Station" from "Urban NYC" channel

YouTube Video

""I'm here to chew bubblegum..." iconic scene from the They Live movie" from "Nathan Yoder" channel

Book: "The Mole People" by Jennifer Toth

Book: "Tunnel People" by Teun Voeten

Book: "The Tunnel" by Margaret Morton

Chapter 23: Chapter 23  
Wastelands

"If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face forever." -George Orwell

Chapter 1: "The Ruins"

I felt like a damn gargoyle sitting up there. Or maybe the vampire Selene from all those "Underworld" movies. Spread out below me from the window ledge of the abandoned hotel was most of Detroit. The city was a wasteland. There was no other way to describe it. Square mile after square mile of abandoned buildings. Abandoned factories in the industrial zones with weeds growing up through the cracks of empty parking lots. Abandoned skyscrapers in the financial district with their broken windows and ornate revolving doors. The abandoned homes in the residential areas were the spookiest. Half of the homes looked like sure bets to be haunted.

Detroit had no city government. No public services. No police. No fire department. There was no electricity, no water, no sewage. Not a single toilet in the city flushed. The city was so empty that even most of the rats had left. The nearest hospital was more than fifty miles away. Yet there were people here. Inhabiting the upper floors of some of the apartment buildings were squatters. They would catch rainwater in large plastic tubs arrayed on the roofs of the buildings. They grew vegetables in any green spaces nearby. Potatoes, turnips, radishes, and sweet potatoes seemed to be the most common. I saw sorghum growing in some of the larger green spaces. I had learned to appreciate sorghum "popcorn" that was offered to me in homeless encampments throughout the midwest.

The only thing positive I could think of to say about Detroit was that there was nobody there to collect rent. It had been twenty-five years since I had kidnapped the U.S. Senate. The kidnapping had accomplished nothing. Now in 2032, the population had dropped to about 280 million. There had been a die-off among the poor thanks to lack of medical treatment. Medicaid had been cut so many times that the Republicans finally killed it off entirely with little fanfare. Medicare had been replaced with a voucher program that paid for so little that only the upper middle class folk got any benefit. The legal requirement for public hospitals to treat anyone who showed up in the emergency rooms regardless of ability to pay had been eliminated. If you didn't have an insurance card, the public hospitals would let you die in the emergency room. Most hospitals were run by private for-profit medical practices which required all treatments to be preapproved by the insurance companies. The private hospitals were even worse than the public hospitals. If you didn't have insurance, they wouldn't even let you bleed to death in the emergency room: they threw you out onto the sidewalk. The only place left to go was the few remaining Catholic hospitals which were found usually only in a state's largest city. The Catholic Church had struggled to keep at least one hospital open in each state. On the front edifice of every Catholic hospital was the following engraved in bronze: "This hospital treats everyone who enters our doors. None shall be turned away." Since the sex scandals had bankrupted every Catholic parish in the country, there wasn't a single Catholic church open in the entire country. There were a few Catholic school systems remaining in New England. That was about it. The Catholic hospitals were the only remaining presence of Catholicism in most areas of the U.S.

After I had pitched the Angel's Sword into the Capitol Building, the U.S. government moved entirely underground into a bunker that had been built during the "Cold War" with the Soviet Union. The cowards had remained there ever since. There was reputed to be a single way in and out of the bunker, but no one in the public knew where it was. All I needed was one photograph, one YouTube video to create a portal into the bunker. I had been pleading for one for years in YouTube videos, but apparently the underground bunker was so tightly policed that carrying a cell phone inside was certain death. The location of the United States government bunker was the most tightly-held secret on Earth. The Angel's Sword was still stuck in the rock of the remnants of the Capitol Building, its blade still alight. There were sharpshooters located everywhere around it in case I decided to try to retrieve it. People in the homeless encampments had been warning me for years that there were also mines located in the soil within ten feet of the Angel's Sword. I silently pleaded in my mind for the Sword to return to me when I raised my hand within sight of it, but the Sword never returned. Who was it waiting for?

The homeless population was now estimated to be over 25 million. Every state had hundreds of what people had begun to call "Reaganvilles" after the president who had initiated the social darwinist war against the non-rich. It was ironic, in a way, to name the homeless encampments after the actor president: by the standards of the day, he was a liberal. Much too liberal to ever be nominated as a Republican presidential candidate. President Ryan's latest proposed budget cut was the last remaining vestige of the welfare state: food stamps. Those had survived only because farmers constantly squawked that they didn't want to sell their entire crop to foreign buyers. Homeless people weren't eligible for food stamps because they didn't have addresses. There were lots of things homeless people were ineligible for because they lacked addresses: library cards, voting, government employment, camping permits for national parks, fishing licenses, drivers' licenses, demonstration permits, mail service since general delivery had been eliminated, passports, and state identification cards. If you didn't have an address, you didn't exist.

Detroit wasn't the only city that looked like what I just described. Most of Los Angeles, most of Denver, all of St. Louis, all of Cleveland, Ohio, most of New York City, nearly the entire state of New Jersey, most of Houston, and most of Atlanta were also wastelands. Every city had its abandoned industrial zones. The United States looked like a country that had been invaded and conquered. It had been invaded and conquered in a way: the worshippers of Ayn Rand had progressively restricted voting to the point that only the upper middle class and the rich could vote: about 12 percent of the population. For the rest, the United States was a dictatorship.

There were still pockets of affluence in the United States. Spotless gated areas of mansions, manicured lawns, and upscale boutiques. And Trapwire cameras. Trapwire cameras were the state surveillance cameras that lined the streets in affluent areas and combined with private closed-circuit TV cameras inside private shops and residential homes to create an all-pervasive security zone where someone was always watching and ready to dispatch the police or a SWAT team as necessary. Trapwire created a high-tech police state to protect the assets of the wealthy. Ironically, the areas inhabited by the rich had the best public services in the United States. They even had free libraries. The rich lived in a world apart.

After twenty-five years of robbing grocery stores, I was the most hated woman in the United States. And the most beloved. Newspapers in the wealthy areas recorded all my exploits and the cable news channels featured me nightly as the rich cursed my name with gusto. I could walk into any homeless encampment in the United States utterly without fear and unarmed. The homeless kept up a constant vigil for police infiltrators who were hoping to rid the government of its most wanted terrorist with a single headshot. The homeless had discovered a highly effective method of discouraging the infiltrators: they ate them. If you got caught in a homeless encampment with a police-issued pistol, you were dinner.

There were other changes. Business districts had changed greatly in the past twenty-five years. Fast-food chain restaurants had virtually disappeared. Global climate change turned the states of the Great Plains into desert. The Midwest corn belt became arid grasslands suitable only for the growing of sorghum. Other countries lost valuable farmland as well. The loss of so much farmland that had been dedicated to the growing of corn sent the price of corn, which was the primary feed for beef cattle, soaring. Beef became too expensive for fast food. Chicken soared in price, as well. The only fast food chicken chain that survived was Chick-fil-A which came to be considered fine dining. Where you had once seen hamburger restaurants, you now saw little hole-in-the-wall taco joints which filled their tacos with beans and rice and used fish and meat solely as condiments. Department stores had almost entirely disappeared as well. They now existed solely in the gated areas occupied exclusively by the rich. Elsewhere, discount stores were all that existed. Cheapmart ruled the roost. Most shopping malls were abandoned. Kids had once liked to go exploring in abandoned shopping malls, but it became too dangerous because homeless drug addicts who had been kicked out of regular homeless encampments tended to drift toward the abandoned shopping malls. Even I was a bit afraid of the homeless drug addicts. If you disturbed them, sometimes they would burst out of nowhere and come at you will a filthy syringe. I've killed a few of them who tried to attack me. I considered them too dangerous to leave alive.

On the world scene, untreatable forms of malaria had broken loose in pockets along the Amazon river basin, the Congo river basin, and the Mekong river basin. It wasn't just people dying. It was every living animal, both warm-blooded and cold-blooded. These malaria-infested areas had become death zones with only plants and insects still alive, and they were getting bigger with each passing year.

I shifted a bit on the window ledge of the abandoned hotel. I wanted to jump off and float down to the street, but that was too dangerous in this day and age of drones flying overhead just about everywhere in America. I avoided all open spaces easily visible from the sky. I had learned to think like an animal that always had one eye focused on the sky looking out for hawks. The drones no longer carried just cameras. Some of them were armed. The "War on Terror" was now in its thirty-first year with no end in sight. The drones were also being used in the "War on Drugs." There had been several incidents in which drones fired on automobiles being chased by the police because they were suspected of carrying large amounts of illegal drugs. Did I mention that there had been two cases in which a drone fired on a young woman simply because she looked like me and was dressed like me? Short, freckle-faced redheads had learned never to wear dark blue, knee-length cotton dresses for fear of being mistaken for me. The Department of Homeland Security's target recognition software that scanned all images from Trapwire cameras wasn't as accurate as they had been claiming.

I leaned back into the abandoned hotel room and opened a portal to another abandoned hotel two streets away. I had been there before. I found a window and peered out. Sure enough, off in the distance I saw a glint off some small object flying in the sky. The Defense Department had spent fortunes trying to make the low-flying domestic drones blend into the sky, but they could still be seen. Some of the domestic drones were the size of insects and flew at street level. I decided it was time to leave.

I returned to Wonderland and had my lunch with Bill McGill's crew of brewers. I work afternoons at the brewery making my own recipe of walnut brandy and "period" brandy. It's only a few hours and the time seems to go quickly. It's certainly not like working at a regular job in the world above. Bill never breathes down my neck, and no one worries about productivity. We don't produce for profit, and there are no books to keep. We produce for our fellow residents of Wonderland, and trade the surplus in the world above for a few items that we can't produce. "Old Bill's Brandy" is a favorite black-market item among the rich in the world above.

After my shift, I was free for the evening, and returned to my drifting in the ruins of Detroit. Just outside of Detroit's border, I saw a new completed prison. Just what the country needed. More jailbirds. Most of the country's prisoners were drug users and shoplifters. Non-violent offenders. Other countries - civilized countries - might have dealt with drug abuse and shoplifting with referral to social service agencies. The proud, self-righteous U.S.A. just locked them up. There were several states with "Three Strikes Laws" that would put a person in prison for life for three shoplifting offenses. In 2032, the United States had about 21 million people in jail. We had more people in prison at one moment than the entire number of people who had passed through Stalin's Gulag during the entire time of its existence. The Republicans saw nothing wrong with this, although they did occasionally grumble about the cost of the contracts with the private prison corporations that housed most of America's unfortunate jailbirds. Some Baptist ministers in the South occasionally wondered aloud how many of America's governing officials held stock in the private prison corporations. "Are some politicians promoting tough-on-crime legislation because more prisoners equals more profits and more dividends in their own pockets?" Prisons were like wars: the country never seemed to run out of money for them.

I had been leading homeless people in middle-of-the-night grocery store ransackings for basic necessities for around twenty-five years. It was intended as a form of political protest against government indifference to inequality. Not one piece of legislation, not one reform, not even a raise in the minimum wage had been passed in response. In 2024, when Republican voter restrictions finally achieved their aim of pushing the Democrats down into the status of a third party, the Republicans and Libertarians joined to eliminate the minimum wage. It was their idea of a jobs program. It didn't work out the way the economists said it would. The lack of purchasing power on the part of so many people who had jobs helped to push the economy down even further. Businesses need customers. It was that simple. It became obvious that above-market minimum wages were, if anything, providing a small boost to the economy. That's when the prison population and number of homeless people really exploded. That's also when I started to appreciate the foresight of the National Rifle Association that had rabidly resisted any restrictions on gun ownership.

Every large homeless encampment in the country had at least 100 hunting rifles, and a fair number of nasty semi-automatic pistols. There were usually a few old machine guns floating around, as well. I even saw an old Soviet AK-47. The police were afraid to enter homeless encampments because the residents were so heavily armed. There had been several well-publicized shootouts between homeless encampments and police squads attempting to evict them. Thus homeless encampments in 2032 were, for the most part, left alone by police departments. Elected officials had finally decided that the trouble of evicting homeless people from vacant, unused public property such as riversides, and from abandoned industrial zones was not worth the trouble. Meanwhile, deep-down-inside, I had started to question the point of peaceful protest because it had produced nothing positive for twenty-five years. All those guns floating around in the homeless encampments were starting to give me ideas. Terrifying, possibly immoral ideas. I wasn't so sure about right and wrong anymore. Black and white, good and evil, justice, the rule of law, equality of opportunity, citizenship. It had all started to melt in my mind into a terrifying glaze of gray and bright, red blood. Could revolution be justified when the result was likely to be a mass slaughter of innocents?

I went home to sleep for awhile before I started on the night's planned raids.

End of Chapter 1

End of Preview of "Wastelands"

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 3


	7. Wastelands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2032, the "Princess of Thieves" leads a revolution against an abstraction. Alternate Universe: a modern American Alice in a real Wonderland.

Title: Wastelands  
Category: Games » American McGee's Alice  
Author: nikkilittle  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Fantasy/Adventure  
Published: 08-28-12, Updated: 08-31-17  
Chapters: 15, Words: 20,887

"If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face forever." -George Orwell

Chapter 1: "The Ruins"

I felt like a damn gargoyle sitting up there. Or maybe the vampire Selene from all those "Underworld" movies. Spread out below me from the window ledge of the abandoned hotel was most of Detroit. The city was a wasteland. There was no other way to describe it. Square mile after square mile of abandoned buildings. Abandoned factories in the industrial zones with weeds growing up through the cracks of empty parking lots. Abandoned skyscrapers in the financial district with their broken windows and ornate revolving doors. The abandoned homes in the residential areas were the spookiest. Half of the homes looked like sure bets to be haunted.

Detroit had no city government. No public services. No police. No fire department. There was no electricity, no water, no sewage. Not a single toilet in the city flushed. The city was so empty that even most of the rats had left. The nearest hospital was more than fifty miles away. Yet there were people here. Inhabiting the upper floors of some of the apartment buildings were squatters. They would catch rainwater in large plastic tubs arrayed on the roofs of the buildings. They grew vegetables in any green spaces nearby. Potatoes, turnips, radishes, and sweet potatoes seemed to be the most common. I saw sorghum growing in some of the larger green spaces. I had learned to appreciate sorghum "popcorn" that was offered to me in homeless encampments throughout the midwest.

The only thing positive I could think of to say about Detroit was that there was nobody there to collect rent. It had been twenty-five years since I had kidnapped the U.S. Senate. The kidnapping had accomplished nothing. In 2032, the population had dropped to about 280 million. There had been a die-off among the poor thanks to lack of medical treatment. Medicaid had been cut so many times that the Republicans finally killed it off entirely with little fanfare. Medicare had been replaced with a voucher program that paid for so little that only the upper middle class folk got any benefit. The legal requirement for public hospitals to treat anyone who showed up in the emergency rooms regardless of ability to pay had been eliminated. If you didn't have an insurance card, the public hospitals would let you die in the emergency room. Most hospitals were run by private for-profit medical practices which required all treatments to be preapproved by the insurance companies. The private hospitals were even worse than the public hospitals. If you didn't have insurance, they wouldn't even let you bleed to death in the emergency room: they threw you out onto the sidewalk. The only place left to go was the few remaining Catholic hospitals which were found usually only in a state's largest city. The Catholic Church had struggled to keep at least one hospital open in each state. On the front edifice of every Catholic hospital was the following engraved in bronze: "This hospital treats everyone who enters our doors. None shall be turned away." Since the sex scandals had bankrupted every Catholic parish in the country, there wasn't a single Catholic church open in the entire country. There were a few Catholic school systems remaining in New England. That was about it. The Catholic hospitals were the only remaining presence of Catholicism in most areas of the U.S.

After I had pitched the Angel's Sword into the Capitol Building, the U.S. government moved entirely underground into a bunker that had been built during the "Cold War" with the Soviet Union. The cowards had remained there ever since. There was reputed to be a single way in and out of the bunker, but no one in the public knew where it was. All I needed was one photograph, one YouTube video to create a portal into the bunker. I had been pleading for one for years in YouTube videos, but apparently the underground bunker was so tightly policed that carrying a cell phone inside was certain death. The location of the United States government bunker was the most tightly-held secret on Earth. The Angel's Sword was still stuck in the rock of the remnants of the Capitol Building, its blade still alight. There were sharpshooters located everywhere around it in case I decided to try to retrieve it. People in the homeless encampments had been warning me for years that there were also mines located in the soil within ten feet of the Angel's Sword. I silently pleaded in my mind for the Sword to return to me when I raised my hand within sight of it, but the Sword never returned. Who was it waiting for?

The homeless population was now estimated to be over 25 million. Every state had hundreds of what people had begun to call "Reaganvilles" after the president who had initiated the social darwinist war against the non-rich. It was ironic, in a way, to name the homeless encampments after the actor president: by the standards of the day, he was a liberal. Much too liberal to ever be nominated as a Republican presidential candidate. President Ryan's latest proposed budget cut was the last remaining vestige of the welfare state: food stamps. Those had survived only because farmers constantly squawked that they didn't want to sell their entire crop to foreign buyers. Homeless people weren't eligible for food stamps because they didn't have addresses. There were lots of things homeless people were ineligible for because they lacked addresses: library cards, voting, government employment, camping permits for national parks, fishing licenses, drivers' licenses, demonstration permits, mail service since general delivery had been eliminated, passports, and state identification cards. If you didn't have an address, you didn't exist.

Detroit wasn't the only city that looked like what I just described. Most of Los Angeles, most of Denver, all of St. Louis, all of Cleveland, Ohio, most of New York City, nearly the entire state of New Jersey, most of Houston, and most of Atlanta were also wastelands. Every city had its abandoned industrial zones. The United States looked like a country that had been invaded and conquered. It had been invaded and conquered in a way: the worshippers of Ayn Rand had progressively restricted voting to the point that only the upper middle class and the rich could vote: about 12 percent of the population. For the rest, the United States was a dictatorship.

There were still pockets of affluence in the United States. Spotless gated areas of mansions, manicured lawns, and upscale boutiques. And Trapwire cameras. Trapwire cameras were the state surveillance cameras that lined the streets in affluent areas and combined with private closed-circuit TV cameras inside private shops and residential homes to create an all-pervasive security zone where someone was always watching and ready to dispatch the police or a SWAT team as necessary. Trapwire created a high-tech police state to protect the assets of the wealthy. Ironically, the areas inhabited by the rich had the best public services in the United States. They even had free libraries. The rich lived in a world apart.

After twenty-five years of robbing grocery stores, I was the most hated woman in the United States. And the most beloved. Newspapers in the wealthy areas recorded all my exploits and the cable news channels featured me nightly as the rich cursed my name with gusto. I could walk into any homeless encampment in the United States utterly without fear and unarmed. The homeless kept up a constant vigil for police infiltrators who were hoping to rid the government of its most wanted terrorist with a single headshot. The homeless had discovered a highly effective method of discouraging the infiltrators: they ate them. If you got caught in a homeless encampment with a police-issued pistol, you were dinner.

There were other changes. Business districts had changed greatly in the past twenty-five years. Fast-food chain restaurants had virtually disappeared. Global climate change turned the states of the Great Plains into desert. The Midwest corn belt became arid grasslands suitable only for the growing of sorghum. Other countries lost valuable farmland as well. The loss of so much farmland that had been dedicated to the growing of corn sent the price of corn, which was the primary feed for beef cattle, soaring. Beef became too expensive for fast food. Chicken soared in price, as well. The only fast food chicken chain that survived was Chick-fil-A which came to be considered fine dining. Where you had once seen hamburger restaurants, you now saw little hole-in-the-wall taco joints which filled their tacos with beans and rice and used fish and meat solely as condiments. Department stores had almost entirely disappeared as well. They now existed solely in the gated areas occupied exclusively by the rich. Elsewhere, discount stores were all that existed. Cheapmart ruled the roost. Most shopping malls were abandoned. Kids had once liked to go exploring in abandoned shopping malls, but it became too dangerous because homeless drug addicts who had been kicked out of regular homeless encampments tended to drift toward the abandoned shopping malls. Even I was a bit afraid of the homeless drug addicts. If you disturbed them, sometimes they would burst out of nowhere and come at you will a filthy syringe. I've killed a few of them who tried to attack me. I considered them too dangerous to leave alive.

On the world scene, untreatable forms of malaria had broken loose in pockets along the Amazon river basin, the Congo river basin, and the Mekong river basin. It wasn't just people dying. It was every living animal, both warm-blooded and cold-blooded. These malaria-infested areas had become death zones with only plants and insects still alive, and they were getting bigger with each passing year.

I shifted a bit on the window ledge of the abandoned hotel. I wanted to jump off and float down to the street, but that was too dangerous in this day and age of drones flying overhead just about everywhere in America. I avoided all open spaces easily visible from the sky. I had learned to think like an animal that always had one eye focused on the sky looking out for hawks. The drones no longer carried just cameras. Some of them were armed. The "War on Terror" was now in its thirty-first year with no end in sight. The drones were also being used in the "War on Drugs." There had been several incidents in which drones fired on automobiles being chased by the police because they were suspected of carrying large amounts of illegal drugs. Did I mention that there had been two cases in which a drone fired on a young woman simply because she looked like me and was dressed like me? Short, freckle-faced redheads had learned never to wear dark blue, knee-length cotton dresses for fear of being mistaken for me. The Department of Homeland Security's target recognition software that scanned all images from Trapwire cameras wasn't as accurate as they had been claiming.

I leaned back into the abandoned hotel room and opened a portal to another abandoned hotel two streets away. I had been there before. I found a window and peered out. Sure enough, off in the distance I saw a glint off some small object flying in the sky. The Defense Department had spent fortunes trying to make the low-flying domestic drones blend into the sky, but they could still be seen. Some of the domestic drones were the size of insects and flew at street level. I decided it was time to leave.

I returned to Wonderland and had my lunch with Bill McGill's crew of brewers. I work afternoons at the brewery making my own recipe of walnut brandy and "period" brandy. It's only a few hours and the time seems to go quickly. It's certainly not like working at a regular job in the world above. Bill never breathes down my neck, and no one worries about productivity. We don't produce for profit, and there are no books to keep. We produce for our fellow residents of Wonderland, and trade the surplus in the world above for a few items that we can't produce. "Old Bill's Brandy" is a favorite black-market item among the rich in the world above.

After my shift, I was free for the evening, and returned to my drifting in the ruins of Detroit. Just outside of Detroit's border, I saw a new completed prison. Just what the country needed. More jailbirds. Most of the country's prisoners were drug users and shoplifters. Non-violent offenders. Other countries - civilized countries - might have dealt with drug abuse and shoplifting with referral to social service agencies. The proud, self-righteous U.S.A. just locked them up. There were several states with "Three Strikes Laws" that would put a person in prison for life for three shoplifting offenses. In 2032, the United States had about 21 million people in jail. We had more people in prison at one moment than the entire number of people who had passed through Stalin's Gulag during the entire time of its existence. The Republicans saw nothing wrong with this, although they did occasionally grumble about the cost of the contracts with the private prison corporations that housed most of America's unfortunate jailbirds. Some Baptist ministers in the South occasionally wondered aloud how many of America's governing officials held stock in the private prison corporations. "Are some politicians promoting tough-on-crime legislation because more prisoners equals more profits and more dividends in their own pockets?" Prisons were like wars: the country never seemed to run out of money for them.

I had been leading homeless people in middle-of-the-night grocery store ransackings for basic necessities for around twenty-five years. It was intended as a form of political protest against government indifference to inequality. Not one piece of legislation, not one reform, not even a raise in the minimum wage had been passed in response. In 2024, when Republican voter restrictions finally achieved their aim of pushing the Democrats down into the status of a third party, the Republicans and Libertarians joined to eliminate the minimum wage. It was their idea of a jobs program. It didn't work out the way the economists said it would. The lack of purchasing power on the part of so many people who had jobs helped to push the economy down even further. Businesses need customers. It was that simple. It became obvious that above-market minimum wages were, if anything, providing a small boost to the economy. That's when the prison population and number of homeless people really exploded. That's also when I started to appreciate the foresight of the National Rifle Association that had rabidly resisted any restrictions on gun ownership.

Every large homeless encampment in the country had at least 100 hunting rifles, and a fair number of nasty semi-automatic pistols. There were usually a few old machine guns floating around, as well. I even saw an old Soviet AK-47. The police were afraid to enter homeless encampments because the residents were so heavily armed. There had been several well-publicized shootouts between homeless encampments and police squads attempting to evict them. Thus homeless encampments in 2032 were, for the most part, left alone by police departments. Elected officials had finally decided that the trouble of evicting homeless people from vacant, unused public property such as riversides, and from abandoned industrial zones was not worth the trouble. Meanwhile, deep-down-inside, I had started to question the point of peaceful protest because it had produced nothing positive for twenty-five years. All those guns floating around in the homeless encampments were starting to give me ideas. Terrifying, possibly immoral ideas. I wasn't so sure about right and wrong anymore. Black and white, good and evil, justice, the rule of law, equality of opportunity, citizenship. It had all started to melt in my mind into a terrifying glaze of gray and bright, red blood. Could revolution be justified when the result was likely to be a mass slaughter of innocents?

I went home to sleep for awhile before I started on the night's planned raids.

End of Chapter 1

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 3

 

Chapter 2: "The Raid"

I didn't do as many raids per week as I had done right after kidnapping the U.S. Senate. As the years went by, the number I did per week steadily dwindled. Now I was doing only around five a week. One a day for five days, sometimes. Five raids in one night, sometimes, so I could have the rest of the week off. I'm not sure if it was demoralization at the lack of results or just me getting older. Maybe I was just getting tired.

The raid tonight was for a homeless encampment on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Nevada had the biggest homeless encampments in the country. There were some places in Nevada where one out of every two people was homeless. The state was a disaster area. Boarded-up foreclosed homes everywhere. The irony of half the homes in the state standing empty and half the people in the state being homeless was lost on the state politicians who continued to wrangle over the age-old questions of taxes, abortion, and gays getting married. Well, it was Nevada, after all. Las Vegas wasn't known as "Sin City" for nothing.

I had been to this encampment several times before. The leader of the encampment greeted me when I walked out of my smoke portal. I liked to arrive via a smoke portal because it gave a greater entrance effect. Sort of like Jeannie from the old TV series out of her bottle. Around the perimeter of the camp, men with hunting rifles walked back and forth. The night patrol keeping an eye out for cops and the occasional criminal gang that preyed on homeless people. Homeless, attractive young women were prized targets for the sexual slave trade gangs.

The leader of the encampment had a magazine rolled up in his hand. He and I knew each other well. "A recent copy of People magazine," he said. "Did you know that you're in here?"

"No, I didn't. I'm surprised that People magazine still exists. The last time I saw one, it was only 32 pages. Almost no advertisements."

"Still only 32 pages. The affluent leave them behind on restaurant tables for the employees. We've got a few young women in this encampment who wait tables at the restaurants down the road. Don't worry. They carry pistols with them when they leave the camp. I still can't believe you can carry a Glock in this state and not need a permit of any kind."

"The girls need pistols just to walk down the road?" Even a cynic like me didn't realize this area was that dangerous.

"About once a week one of them kills a guy for attempting rape. The rape attempts almost always happen after dark. The girls just leave the rapists' bodies on the side of the road. Our girls carry a small pistol strapped to their thighs. The cops only investigate the murders of people who live in the gated communities. They don't give two shits about the rest of us."

"The wild, wild west. It's the nineteenth century all over again. Only this time the Indians are already on reservations. Where do I appear in the magazine?"

"You're in their top ten most beautiful women in America list again."

"They only put me in there to piss off the government. Since it's illegal to say anything positive about me under the 'Promoting Terrorism Act,' they put me in their beauty list to thumb their noses at the government. They also need at least one woman in there who has real boobs." I couldn't help grinning. I threw my chest out and pointed at it. "These are one hundred percent real! Straight from the Valrhona chocolate factory in France! I didn't get D-cups by starving myself!"

My companion blushed a bit. Maybe I shouldn't have thrown my big tits in his face. But I was proud of them, ya know? I had been flat-chested when I was skinny. "You're actually number two on the list this year," he said.

"What? Usually I'm the token fat chick in the list." I didn't really think of myself as fat. I still had an easily visible waist, after all.

"You're not fat, Alice. You're probably in there because you look like Judy Garland. There's a lot of old guys in this country who have a soft spot for the 1939 MGM musical. Put you in a gingham dress, and you could pass for an adult Dorothy. I still can't get over how you haven't seemed to age over the past two decades."

"There's something in the water in Wonderland that slows down the aging process dramatically after you've been drinking it for about 30 years. I arrived in Wonderland in 1977 and hit that 30-year threshold in around 2007. I've been the equivalent of about 47 ever since." I thought it best not to tell him that Arianne and I would probably live to 500 as long as we continued to live in Wonderland.

"You look like you're in your early 30s."

"A little extra flesh in the face can take nearly two decades off." I reached up and pinched my cheeks to make the point. My conversation companion rolled his eyes and looked a bit embarrassed. I wasn't embarrassed at all.

I opened the magazine and looked at the women in the top ten list. Number one was a short, blond-haired, buxom country music star who was as chubby as me. With a heart-shaped face, round, prominent breasts, and big hips, she was spectacular. I couldn't believe it. The rest of the women in the list were also chubby with their rounded hips and heavy thighs. All ten of the women in the list were in the size twelve to sixteen range. The one rather tall woman in the list might have even been an eighteen. I was speechless.

"Who put this list together? Where's the usual parade of underfed Hollywood starlets with fake boobs?"

"There's an interesting article in the magazine about the relationship of the feminine ideal to economic conditions. Some scientist discovered that during hard economic times, men develop a preference for full-figured women. The theory is that they're seeking comfort and cuddling. The worse the economy, the bigger the babes."

"I'm a babe? At five feet tall and size sixteen I'm suddenly a hot chick? So it's another Great Depression. Good grief! Look at these women! Round faces and big, real breasts. They've all got hips and butts. I never thought I'd live to see the day that women with bodies like this would be considered attractive."

"There's another theory, too. Men like what's scarce. Right now, most poor people are skinny stick figures. The disappearance of fast food restaurants selling cheap, fatty meat has coincided with shrinking waistlines throughout the country. You can now tell the social class of someone in the U.S. just by looking at his waistline. America is no longer the land of the world's fattest poor people. Our poor people are now like poor people everywhere else - skinny. Only the affluent can afford to be chubby."

It suddenly dawned on me that I looked like someone from the well-fed upper middle class. I looked like a pampered housewife.

"I came to carry out a raid. You want to go round up the raiders?" I sat down at a battered wooden picnic table. It dawned on me that most homeless encampments would benefit by having more picnic tables around so that people could sit at tables to eat instead of sit on the ground. I made a mental note to steal a few picnic tables on this raid. The encampment leader came back with this night's raiders. Mostly muscular middle-aged men. Not a spare ounce of fat on any of them. I almost felt guilty for having a body well-fed enough to jiggle. I passed out gloves and ski masks as usual. I put gloves on my hands, but left my own face uncovered. Standard practice for me.

I prepped the target hypermarket by throwing the shrunken head of the duchess through a portal the same as I had been doing for twenty-five years. The gas had always successfully cleared out any employees and guards in the stores at night. The government had never found a gas mask that could filter out the noxious fumes from the shrunken head. My usual tactic had always worked - until this time.

I waited two minutes for the fumes to clear and then opened another portal. I stepped through, suspecting nothing. The sensation of a giant lead wall being slammed into my chest knocked me backwards onto the floor. I sensed the world going black, and, for a moment, saw myself standing in line at the gates of purgatory. The blackness returned only to fade into a dazzling, blinding white.

End of Chapter 2

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Sometimes I wonder if the "hysteria wave" in Madness Returns came from my own fan fiction. Unless American McGee himself speaks up, I'll never know for sure. For the record, American McGee is welcome to use anything he likes from my fan fiction. No credit needed. I'd love to see a chocolate bar used as a powerup!

 

Chapter 3: "The Reawakening"

I awoke in a strange hospital room that I had never seen before. Spanish-language posters hung on a wall with peeling paint. A fan circled lazily overhead. The windows to the room were all open, and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. Cheshire jumped up onto my bed.

"You'll be happy to know, Alice, that your portal suddenly closed before any of your raiders were able to step through. You're the only one who got shot."

"How would you know that?" I was still dizzy. The room spun in circles as I tried to lift my head to see Cheshire.

"Someone got hold of the store's closed-circuit security video and uploaded it to just about every video site on the internet. YouTube kept trying to delete it, but gave up. Anonymous attacked YouTube and uploaded tens of thousands of copies via tens of thousands of new accounts. You put on quite a show."

"What happened?"

"You were ambushed by an anti-terror squad all wearing scuba-diving equipment. No gas masks. They used air tanks. The government must have been spending a fortune to equip anti-terror squads with air tanks that have to be refilled every ninety minutes. Imagine all the years they must have been having these squads sitting in hypermarkets every night just waiting on the extremely remote chance that you would show up precisely when they were there. The law of averages finally caught up with you. The shrinkage in the number of hypermarkets certainly helped."

"The last thing I saw was blinding white. How many bodies did I leave behind?"

"All of the anti-terror squad. You killed them all. You didn't turn into the Queen of Hearts. You turned into this black-skinned demon-looking thing with threadlike snakes for hairs. This was something I'd never seen. Caterpillar said you turned into Medusa. He said it's what you became when you were exposed to a whole shelf of rage potion in that accident in your weapons locker. The anti-terror squad hit you with 104 bullets. The first six went completely through your chest before the rage potion that your body produced made you nearly impervious to the rest. If just one of those first six bullets had hit you in the head, we wouldn't be talking right now. The anti-terror squad didn't really have time to aim as they didn't know where you would open the portal. When they stopped firing, you looked like a life-sized rag doll that a child had carelessly tossed onto the floor. You didn't look like a person at all. Then, in the blink of an eye, you turned into Medusa and jumped up. You twirled like a ballerina chopping heads off with your Bowie Knife and sending them flying in all directions. Then you disappeared into a portal. Hatter says you showed up in his clinic draining blood all over the floor. He thought you were dead for sure. He brought you to the emergency room of this hospital. He had made a deal long ago for emergency medical care for any cases that he couldn't handle in his clinic. You're in a hospital in Havana, Cuba."

I leaned my head back onto my pillow, and heaved a sigh of relief. The ceiling still spun in my face. Cuba was one of the few countries of the world that was actually safe for me to walk around in out in the open. There were no U.S. drones flying overhead. The Cuban air force had been shooting down every U.S. drone they spotted. Armed or carrying only cameras, it didn't matter. The U.S. had given up trying to fly drones over Cuba years ago. There were no CIA assassins roaming the streets, either. The Cuban security services were the best in the world, and had an uncanny knack for picking CIA agents out of the embassy employees or a pack of tourists roaming the UNESCO sites.

"I've got some news that you're not going to like. Better to hear it now than find out in a few moments." Cheshire heaved a deep sigh. "You've been in a coma for nearly five months. Those tubes in your arms are both intravenous feeding drips. Most coma patients do okay with those drips, but you had a continuous high fever most of the time you were out. You've lost a lot of muscle tissue and nearly all of your muscle tone. You're going to have to go through a rehabilitation program. Just walking right now would probably exhaust you." Cheshire seemed to grit his teeth. "You've lost 77 pounds while you were out. You woke up just in time. The doctors here were about one week from telling everyone in Wonderland to come and say their goodbyes."

I did the math. I had gone into a homeless encampment to do a raid weighing 172 pounds and woke up in a hospital weighing 95 pounds. I'm sure I groaned. I looked to the left and right to make sure the tubes from the IVs were long enough to allow me to move my arms. I touched my fingers to my face. No cute chubby cheeks. My face was bony. My cheeks were hollowed out. I wondered how ghastly I looked. I decided that I shoud be grateful for being alive instead of vainly worrying about my face. I lifted a little bit the thin blanket covering me and put my right hand under it. I was still looking at the ceiling. I ran my fingers over my chest. The prominent, rounded D-cup breasts that I so dearly loved to show off had deflated like a pair of punctured balloons. There was nothing left of them but some loose skin. I let loose with a string of four-letter words. I could feel my ribs. I hadn't felt my ribs in more than two and a half decades. My stomach had caved inwards below my ribs. It felt as if someone had scooped out my entire stomach. The roll of fat below my waist was gone. No squishy shelf just below the belly button. No rounded bulge just above my crotch. My hips felt like bone sticking out. My ass was killing me. I had so little flesh on my backside that even the soft hospital bed hurt. I had felt beautiful when I was a smooth-skinned, plump size 16. I had gloried in all the soft, rounded curves that I had. My dresses, still with high necklines, were form-fitting and designed to show off my chest, hips, and backside. The roll below my waist, also outlined in my dresses, hadn't bothered me at all. I sure didn't feel beautiful after touching all those bones sticking out.

"I'll bet you're thirsty, Alice. I'm going to press the button to summon a nurse. They need to know that you're awake. This room will be full of doctors in a moment."

A short, brown-skinned nurse peeked in the door, waved to me, and immediately left. She returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with some scrambled eggs, toast, and a glass of some tropical fruit juice. She pulled the IV needles out and swabbed the insertion points. She warned me in slow, carefully enunciated English, "Eat slowly." She left again. Apparently the doctors decided to give me some time to eat before filling my room.

End of Chapter 3

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 2

 

Chapter 4: "The Recovery"

A few minutes after I finished eating, one English-speaking doctor came in to inform me of what was going to happen next.

"We're going to move you to the rehabilitation wing to regain your muscle tone and strength. It's a medical facility, so don't expect it to be like a gym in the United States. There are swimming pools. Don't worry - they're chlorinated just like pools in the United States. The water in the pools also contains a chemical which turns urine blue, so if any jerks pee in the pool, you'll know it. There are mountain climbing and tree climbing simulations to develop upper arm strength. Your upper arms are less than half the size they were when you came in. You've lost a lot of muscle. The same for your thighs. You need to take regular walks around Havana to regain your leg strength. You won't need to walk alone. Your friend Arianne will be here to walk with you. We also want to bring you up to 55 kilos before we release you. We want you to look presentable when we release you. We're not like hospitals in America where the insurance companies have you tossed out on your ass the instant you can stand up and breathe. It would reflect badly on Cuban medicine if we turned you out looking like Tim Burton's Corpse Bride."

I couldn't help giggling at the doctor's last crack. "You think I look like Tim Burton's Corpse Bride right now?"

"My dear, you look like walking death. We'll have a schedule for you which has various exercises you need to do each day, time for you to take walks in Havana, and six meals a day."

"Six meals a day?"

"You can't eat much at a sitting after all that time hooked up to intravenous drips. You're not used to solid food. We don't want to make you sick. You'll be eating six small meals a day. Relax, it's not as terrible as eating American hospital food. Cuban hospital kitchens use spices in the food. It's not as bland and flavorless as you might expect. I hope you like rice and beans, though. Ever since that British Petroleum oil spill poisoned the entire gulf, fish is extremely scarce and expensive in Cuba. Our fishing fleets go all the way out into the Atlantic to fish now. Most of it ends up in the tourist hotels. There are a lot of pork dishes on the hospital menus, but your friends have told me that you don't eat meat."

"I can take walks out in Havana?"

"You can go anywhere you like. No one will follow you. Cuba has changed a bit since the Castro years. This is still a socialist state, but the country is not as tightly regimented as it used to be. The Communist Party still has the final say on everything, but we have a parliament of 500 randomly selected citizens. The selection of our parliament is far more democratic than what you have in the United States. Even our Communist Party has more diversity than your corporate-controlled government. Rich lawyers do not run this country. Our prisons are nearly empty. We simply let our malcontents leave."

"Do you have any news magazines from the last five months available? Magazines in English, preferably. I can read Spanish to a limited degree, but probably not enough for a news magazine."

"I can tell you the highlights of what's been happening the last five months. First, the U.S. government thinks you're dead and has been crowing about your death the same way they celebrated the death of Bin Laden. People in the rich, gated communities turned out in big flag-waving ceremonies that appalled all of the rest of the world. No one outside of the United States thinks you're a terrorist. The poor communities rioted. I don't think the riots were about you. It was the idea that someone could get shot 104 times for stealing food that incensed the poor."

The doctor paused a moment to sip from a glass of water. He motioned to a nurse to approach and said something in Spanish too rapid for me to understand. The nurse left and the doctor continued.

"People in the homeless encampments of Los Angeles took over the entire city for two months. They declared it 'The People's Republic of Los Angeles' and took all the empty, foreclosed houses from the banks and gave them to homeless families. They declared all vacant lots to be public property and passed out seeds for people to start gardens. The governor of California ordered the California National Guard to invade the city and arrest all the members of the 'illegal government.' The commander of the California National Guard knew how heavily armed people in homeless encampments are and refused. He said invading Los Angeles would be a bloodbath. The California governor had him arrested and thrown in prison. The Los Angeles rebellion ended when the federal government launched drone strikes inside Los Angeles and had the Marine Corps invade the city. It was a bloodbath. The U.S. government kept the foreign and domestic press out, but they couldn't stop the flood of cellphone videos, photos, and bloggers' eyewitness accounts. All of the captured rebels were thrown up against a wall and shot. It was the Paris Commune of 1871 all over again."

"The first whiff of rebellion in the U.S., and I missed it," I said. At that moment, I felt cheated, and I still do.

"There were more rebellions than that," continued the doctor. "Homeless encampments carried out their own raids of hypermarkets for foods. Most food banks were either too far away or had too little to be of much use to the homeless encampments. It was steal or starve. They took weapons with them and sometimes blasted the doors open with machine gun fire and antique hand grenades left over from World War II and the Korean War. They filled shopping carts and took everything back to their encampments. The federal government used Marine Corps soldiers to arrest entire homeless encampments that had carried out raids. Some homeless encampments resisted. They sent their children fleeing right through the Marine Corps lines and fought to the last bullet. Mostly hunting rifles up against soldiers with automatic machine guns, grenades, and rocket-propelled grenades. It was suicide. The raids that you had been leading left almost no evidence behind because you always robbed hypermarkets that were several states away from the homeless encampment that you led. With the rubber gloves and ski masks, there was nobody left to blame but you. There were also jurisdiction problems. Very clever of you."

The nurse who had left a moment ago returned and handed me a stack of about twenty old copies of the International Herald Tribune. The doctor thanked her and told me that all the tourist hotels in the area sold the International Herald Tribune. "Tourists often leave their newspapers behind in the outdoor cafes. Nurses on their lunch breaks often scavenge the newspapers that the tourists leave behind after eating. You can keep those." I looked at the masthead. "A Joint Publication of the New York Times, the Manchester Guardian, and Le Monde." So the newspaper wasn't all American sources. Maybe I would find out a bit more than most Americans knew. I put the stack of newspapers in the small closet on top of my travel bag.

"We'll leave you in this room for one more day and you can tell your friends when they arrive that you're being moved over to the rehabilitation wing. Hatter and Arianne usually come in the evening at about six o'clock. Cheshire goes home then. Hatter and Arianne usually leave at about seven o'clock. You're then alone until the next morning. Cheshire shows up at around six o'clock every morning. He stays with you most of the day, only going out to eat. He found a tidal pool which has plenty of fish swimming around, and he's been feasting on fish. Did you notice that his fur has grown back in? He was pretty skeletal-looking when we first saw him." Cheshire hopped up on my bed.

"Did you all forget that I was here?" Cheshire paraded back and forth on the foot of my bed. "So what do you think, Alice? Do I look better with fur?"

I didn't notice because I had had my head back on my pillow, staring at the spinning ceiling. Cheshire had a full coat of fur and looked like a normal lynx. "You're a very handsome cat!" I said.

Cheshire sat down on his haunches. "I'm having trouble believing it myself. I'm so used to being an ugly, old bag of bones. The snarks in Wonderland just aren't enough."

I made a mental note of it to teach Cheshire how to cook eggs when we got back to Wonderland. I'd seen eggs in cans of cat food before and knew that eggs were a reasonable form of protein for Cheshire. I looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was around six o'clock. Time for Hatter and Arianne to show up and for Cheshire to go home.

Cheshire's ears perked up. "You have guests." Hatter and Arianne walked in and were instantly startled to see me awake. Hatter opened a portal for Cheshire and he sauntered through with that Puss-In-Boots swagger of his.

"Well, well! The sleeper has awakened!" announced Hatter. "You had us all worried! There are some clean clothes and lingerie in your travel bag in the closet. A nurse was giving you a quick sponge bath every morning. You're clean. There are some socks and shoes in the closet, as well. Why don't you get dressed and we'll go out into Havana to look around a bit. There's a small outdoor café near the hospital that has fish tacos. Arianne and I haven't had dinner. How about you?"

"I just had something to eat. Thanks." The doctor looked at Arianne and Hatter and obviously had something to say.

"We're going to move Alice to the rehabilitation wing tomorrow. She's too thin and weak to be turned loose now. We'd like to bring her back up to 55 kilos before we release her. We want her to look presentable before we toss her out." Hatter looked at me while the doctor walked out the door. Arianne shut the door.

"There are no bills to worry about, Alice. I made a deal with the Cubans for emergency medical care ages ago. This isn't America."

"If this were America, a CIA assassination squad would have gotten me." I got up out of bed to get dressed. I got a surprise when I saw the dress that Arianne had packed for me. It was a child's floral gingham dress.

"I had to get a child's dress to find something small enough to fit. You're tiny now."

I stripped off my hospital gown and lingerie in front of Hatter and Arianne. Hatter winced and looked embarrassed.

"Oh, come on now, Hatter! You've seen me naked in physical exams before. No need to turn away." I saw Arianne wince, too.

"Not a pretty sight, am I? I need a bikini for tomorrow because part of my rehabilitation involves swimming. I need my muscles back." I held up my twig-like right arm. I still had the strength of The Queen of Hearts - and Medusa! - but I looked like a weakling. I didn't like looking like a weakling.

"Alice, nobody wants to see a skeleton in a bikini." Arianne looked uncomfortable.

"I'll be in a medical rehabilitation center. Nobody expects me to be a pretty sight."

"I'll get you one," promised Hatter.

"Not alone, you won't," said Arianne. "I'll go along with you to make sure you don't pick out something hideous.

"I'll bring Lindsay along and we'll make it a night out," answered Hatter.

"Three's a crowd, Hatter," said Arianne. "I trust Lindsay's judgment. Let her pick out a bikini. Make sure that Lindsay knows Alice's current size." Lindsay was Hatter's third wife. The first bailed on him, and the notorious Sarah Palin got eaten by a killer mushroom. Nobody had expected Lindsay to last so long. Bill McGill had found the perfect job for Lindsay at the brewery: quality control. Lindsay was the taste tester. She was also one of the brewers.

Hatter pulled a syringe out of a small bag. "I've been injecting you with a concentrate of water from Wonderland. I was worried about the effect of no exposure to Wonderland's water for the duration of your stay in this hospital. This issue has never come up before. Roll up your sleeve. This is the last one. I'll bring you a bottle of water from Wonderland tomorrow."

I rolled up my sleeve and let Hatter inject me with the concentrate. He was good with a needle. I hardly felt it. "You were worried that I'd shrivel up like that woman at the end of the novel 'Lost Horizon,' weren't you?"

"I was worried because I don't know what the effect would be," said Hatter. I was glad that he had thought of the water issue. It made me feel that Hatter had been looking after me the entire time that I was out.

"It looks like I shriveled up, anyway," I said. I wasn't happy at all about what had happened to my face. I was so used to looking like Judy Garland. Without the chubby, full cheeks, I looked completely different. I felt ugly.

All three of us left the hospital with Hatter leading the way to the small outdoor café. We sat down. I was relieved to note that Hatter and Arianne both looked exactly as I had remembered. Hatter was the same old dandy in fine clothes, face as ugly as ever. Arianne was the same plump, buxom size 16 that I had been. Looking at her, I was intensely aware of what I had lost. I was more than a little jealous. Hatter and Arianne ordered two fish tacos for themselves. I had just had a small dinner, but it dawned on me that I was kind of starving. "You've got money to pay, Hatter?" I asked. Hatter said that he had enough Cuban currency for a small shopping expedition. I didn't ask where he got the money. "If you're paying, then I'm going to eat. You all know that I'm going to be eating hospital food six times a day, right?"

Arianne nodded in the affirmative. I ordered six tacos and Hatter gasped. "You'll never finish them! Didn't the hospital warn you not to eat too much at one sitting?"

"I'm not going to get the opportunity to eat here every day, am I? I think I should take advantage of the occasion."

Hatter bet Arianne two flasks of period brandy that I wouldn't finish the tacos. Arianne took the bet. "Of course she'll finish them. She has a stomach made out of rubber. You think she got up to 172 pounds by eating like a bird?" Hatter reminded Arianne that she had weighed 173 pounds at her last physical exam.

"Perhaps, Arianne, you have a stomach made out of rubber, too?" Hatter said, smirking just a little bit. Arianne scowled. Unlike me, Arianne was touchy about her weight. I gave Hatter a silent look that he knew meant "Back off!" Hatter gave me a sweet smile and shut up.

I took my time eating the tacos. I had to get up and walk around a bit every 15 minutes because my bony ass hurt so much. I literally had nothing to sit on and the chairs were wrought iron. Hatter and Arianne finished their two tacos in about fifteen minutes. I wanted to savor the occasion of an outdoor café near the ocean in an area that vaguely reminded me of the older sections of Paris. The locale was lovely, the breeze kept the flies away, and the birds that fluttered about the empty tables were only a minor annoyance. The salt smell of ocean spray was a lovely accompaniment to the spicy, grilled fish tacos. I did finish the six tacos in about an hour. I felt fine. Stuffed, but fine.

Arianne looked at me. "You eat like that every day, and you'll be back up to 172 pounds in two months.

"Good!" I said. "I fucking hate being flat-chested!" And bony-faced. For the record, I didn't puke.

End of Chapter 4

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 2

 

Chapter 5: "The Rehabilitation"

The next day when Hatter and Arianne were preparing to leave, I led them both over to the tidal pool Cheshire had been fishing in to explain that I wanted Hatter to test a few of the fish in his lab to see if they were safe to eat. I was worried that my dear feline friend had been eating poison. Lacking anything to catch the fish with, or a water bucket to keep them in, Hatter took Arianne home first, and then popped back with a small net and a bucket. It took awhile of splashing along the edges of the pool, but we eventually caught three small fish of different species, and Hatter popped back to his lab to test them. At the beginning of his visit the next day, Hatter informed me that the fish were safe to eat at least in the short run. No contamination showed up in his tests on the three fish. Hatter also told me that he himself would not eat anything from the Gulf of Mexico for fear of as-yet unknown long-term consequences.

My daily routine at the hospital was a taste of mind-crushing boredom and tongue-destroying tastelessness. The doctor had promised me that the hospital cafeteria used spices, and it was true. They used them in such small quantities that I had trouble believing that I was in Latin America. Everything the hospital cafeteria served was low-fat, low cholesterol, low-sodium, and healthy. I started to think that nutritionists were like lawyers: the best thing to do with them was line them up and shoot them. The doctors wanted me to gain 25 pounds on this stuff? It was diet food. I wondered if it was fifty-year-old packaged dinners from Jenny Craig. Even memories of Swilly's seemed enticing.

Cheshire continued to show up at six o'clock every morning to keep me company during my daily routines. His wry wisecracks made my exercises bearable, and the looks on people's faces when he accompanied me for my walks in Havana were priceless. One tourist asked me if it was safe to pet Cheshire. "Better not," I said. "Look at those teeth." Cheshire flashed the tourist his widest grin exposing a mouthful of shark-like teeth. The tourist turned white as a Paris hotel sheet and ran. Cheshire continued to return home when Hatter and Arianne arrived at around six in the evening.

The routine was wall climbing and simulated tree climbing in the morning, a two-hour break for walking in Havana, swimming in the afternoon, another two-hour break for walking in Havana, and an hour of track running in the evening. The wall climbing was the most fun. It took some time to get the safety harness on, but once that was dealt with, I was a regular little monkey from the start. The doctors wondered where I got the strength to pull myself upwards with such twig-like upper arms. I kept quiet about having the strength of the Queen of Hearts even while not converted. Let them marvel at me I thought. About every two and a half hours, I had a small meal scheduled. Cheshire started to accompany me for meals just to get some water. He said he had been drinking from fountains in the hospital which grossed out a few people. People complained that his whiskers had touched the spout. He'd flip the switch on and then lean back and let the stream of water splash into his mouth. It sounded inconvenient for a cat. Breakfast was the only good meal of the day at the hospital. Every breakfast included one scrambled, low-cholesterol egg. It tasted like the real thing. Sometimes Cheshire would eat a scrambled egg with me. People really stared when they saw Cheshire sitting in a chair like a human.

The high point of every day was the evening visit from Hatter and Arianne. The second time they came, I wanted to go back to that outdoor café that served fish tacos. Hatter and Arianne looked at each other.

"Alice, I'm not sure if eating fish more than occasionally here would be a good idea," said Arianne. "You have no idea where that fish came from. We could have been eating pure poison from the Gulf of Mexico yesterday."

"The doctor in the hospital told me that the Cuban fishing fleet goes all the way out into the Atlantic to fish. You do know that the entire fishing industry here is state-owned, don't you?"

"No, I didn't know that it was all state-owned," said Arianne. "So the fish is safe to eat?"

I assured Arianne and Hatter that the fish was safe to eat here. I also informed them that it was so expensive that most of it ended up sold to tourists. Outside of the tourist zones, we were unlikely to find any fish for sale. The doctor didn't mention it, but I suspected that most of Cuba's fish ended up in restaurants catering to tourists. The prices in the outdoor café serving fish tacos weren't bad by U.S. standards, but I knew that the café would be unaffordable to ordinary Cubans. Another attraction of that café was the frequency with which other patrons would leave newspapers, usually copies of the Internation Herald Tribune purchased from hotel lobbies, lying on the tables. After I convinced Hatter and Arianne that the fish was safe to eat, we started going there daily in the evenings. I always ordered six fish tacos and unsweetened iced tea. Every evening, I had a couple of new newspapers to read and catch up on what had been happening.

The news from the United States was profoundly depressing. Every day it seemed, several homeless encampments carried out grocery store raids. The most common result was the entire camp being arrested by Marine Corps soldiers a few days later. In the time that I had been gone, the homeless population of the United States had gone down by about one million people - because they had been herded off to jail. The children of arrested homeless parents were being given away like candy to upper middle-class families. It didn't take long for the luxury of typical upper-middle-class homes to seduce the snatched children. Money couldn't buy love, but luxury sure could. I started to realize that my grocery store raids weren't as pointless as I had originally thought they were. Urban homeless encampments began to rely almost exclusively on dumpster diving for food. With no federal inspection of foods in the grocery stores, dumpster diving was not nearly as productive as it had been twenty-five years ago. Grocery stores in 2032 only threw out what was obviously tainted or otherwise undesirable. You needed a cast-iron stomach to eat food from a dumpster in 2032. I started to squirm with a desire to do something. I couldn't wait to get out of the hospital.

Every week, the doctors gave me a brief examination which involved weighing me, pinching my upper arms and thighs, and giving me a stress test on a treadmill to test my endurance. It took me only two months to hit their target of 55 kilos. They couldn't figure out how I did it on that tasteless hospital food. I never told them about my evening soujourns in a certain outdoor café near the hospital. My body was solid and muscular from head to foot. All those exercises had achieved their purpose. I was also as curveless as a teen-aged boy. Considering what I had in mind, I thought that my curveless body was a blessing in disguise.

End of Chapter 5

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

Chapter 6: "The Return"

I was swamped with attention from Gnome Village. My seamstress measured me for new dresses because I only had one size eight in my closet. She stared at me open-mouthed in amazement. "I hardly recognize you! So skinny! So fit!" Other gnome women plied me with baked goods to take home with me - fattening cakes and pastries, I noticed. They must have felt sorry for me, I guess. I gave the pastries away in Arianne's old homeless encampment. I didn't intend to eat them, and I didn't want them lying around tempting Arianne. Hatter invited Arianne and me to his outdoor dining tables for dinner. Sautéed mushrooms and rice, one of my favorite dinners. Arianne waited until late at night, after our showers, to give me her greeting.

Pulling me into her room and locking the door behind her, Arianne tossed off her dress with the flair of a stripper. I didn't have to guess what Arianne had in mind. She put a CD of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts in the player on her dresser with a raucous volume to cover up the sounds so that the other inhabitants of the house in Pandemonium wouldn't hear everything.

Arianne had a full-length mirror in her bedroom right on the wall beside her bed which made sex in her room more interesting than in my room. I only had a small face mirror on the wall in my room above the chest of drawers She motioned for me to strip and took off the rest of her clothes except her socks. Wow! There was no other word I could think of to describe Arianne standing naked in front of me. I was instantly struck dizzy by the sensuality of her well-fleshed buxom figure. It had been seven months since Arianne and I had ripped into each other. What a rack! It occurred to me that if I had been a guy, I would have had an erection banging me on the nose.

I glided over behind Arianne in nothing but my socks, and cupped her breasts from behind. Arianne was about the same dress size I had been, but she was bigger in the chest: I had had D-cups, Arianne had F-cups. They were spectacular. I couldn't resist massaging them first.

"Straight for the tits, as usual, eh Alice? You've got a thing for breasts, don't you?"

"Considering that I didn't have any for a large portion of my life, I'd say yes."

"A pity you got so skinny. I'm kind of wondering how I'll have any fun with you."

"Maybe it's about time that I was on top. I sure haven't got any cushion for you to lie on."

"Are you implying that I've got plenty of cushion?"

I ran my hands up and down Arianne's stomach from behind. When I had last gotten her naked, she had had a thin, soft layer of fat on her stomach which wasn't enough to show in her dress. Now I felt a bit more cushion on her stomach. I pinched her stomach above the belly button.

"You put on a few pounds, girl?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Not here anyway." I pinched around above her waistline. There was definitely a little more flesh.

"How about down here?" I said. I grabbed the roll below Arianne's waistline. It had been merely rounded below her belly button, but now it was more like the jiggly shelf that I had had. Just above her crotch, I could definitely feel more flesh. Arianne had enough to bounce down there. It still wasn't as much as I had had. I poked and my finger sank into a pillow.

"You're on your way to a pot tummy as big as I had," I said. "I sure remember how you loved to poke it."

"Well, you just had so much to poke. I couldn't resist."

"I also remember that you even liked to lick it," I said. "I loved that."

"Licking it was fun. It was so squishy and jiggly. You had a really fat tum below the belly button and you obviously liked having it."

"I liked how it felt when you massaged it. The underside was one of the most sensitive parts of my body. It drove me absolutely mad when you used to rub and lick there. I used to rub the underside myself when I was flying solo. I had no desire to get rid of my big fat tum. I miss having it right now. I have nothing to belly dance with. Does that roll below your waist really bother you all that much?"

"Yes, it does bother me. I look at myself in a mirror and can't believe how fat I'm getting. Again. I don't want to end up like I did after Trump got elected president. Do you remember the pot belly I grew. It was huge!"

"Oh, yeah, I remember. It was so perfectly rounded and stuck out so far that it was like something out of an erotic museum painting. That belly was a work of art! A monument to stress eating. I'll bet you hated lugging it around!"

"I am truly relieved to be rid of that enormous gut. I felt the weight on my feet and in my ankles. It took me almost a decade to lose it after Trump was gone."

"Why does weight always look so good to you when it's on me and so terrible when it's on you? I always thought that my rounded pot tummy right below the belly button was so sexy. It jiggled. It wobbled. It bounced. It was perfect for belly dancing. It was completely outlined in my dresses. Even the pleats couldn't hide it. I thought it made me look more feminine." I looked at Arianne in the mirror. "A jiggly pot tummy looks good on you, too. Now you have something to belly dance with." I reached around Arianne's hips and squeezed her pot tummy. There was no grin on her face in the mirror. I started to massage it. She didn't seem to be enjoying it the way I would have. I decided against any licking.

"I'm beginning to think that you're a bit of a chubby chaser, yourself," said Arianne. "You wish I hadn't lost that enormous belly Trump stress gave me." I had long known that Arianne preferred her women big. Really big. She had confessed to that back when President Trump got elected.

"I'm not a chubby chaser, Arianne. I don't really care what size you are as long as you're healthy. I am, however, inclined to always appreciate what I find in front of me. I liked you when you were skinny, I liked you when you were normal, and I like you just fine the way you are now. I even liked you when you grew that enormous belly after Trump got elected president. I'm glad you lost it, though. It looked like a real burden. It had to be awful for your health. My own body is a different matter. I like me well-filled out. But not huge. I like me as I was before the ambush. Soft. Womanly. Jiggly. Curvaceous. Voluptuous. Right now, I'm not feeling very comfortable in my own skin. I have no jiggle at all."

"You'll adjust, Alice. Besides, time will fix everything eventually. Even here in Wonderland."

I ran my hands over Arianne's hips and pressed my fingers into the soft padding. Her hips looked so good in a dress. I never understood why so many women despised their hips and tortured themselves with strict dieting to get rid of them. Aren't rounded hips one of the most characteristic features of female bodies? To me, having your hipbones stick out was disgusting. I wanted my bones well-covered with flesh. I stepped aside of Arianne and looked at my own body in the mirror. I had enough muscle on my body to cover up the bones, but the lack of curves and my bony face made me decidedly masculine-looking. Oh, well. For the time being, this was what I was stuck with.

"Don't I get a kiss?" asked Arianne.

I locked lips with Arianne for perhaps a minute before I pulled away to breathe. I looked at us in the mirror, and moved Arianne so that I could get a profile view of her. Arianne knew what I was doing. I reached around with both hands and lifted Arianne's butt up just to let it fall.

"Baby got back," I whispered in her ear.

"But not like you had," whispered Arianne in my ear. It was true. I had had more backside than Arianne. She had the boobs. I had the butt. When I used to walk by the gnome village, the gnome men would stop and stare at my jiggling ass until they turned blue and fainted. The gnome women bribed me with dresses to take the long way around the gnome village.

"Baby got boobs," giggled Arianne as she grabbed my head and stuck my nose in-between her breasts. I suddenly turned around and stuffed my head in-between her breasts.

"Look! Ear muffs!" I grabbed Arianne and threw her down on her bed. Whoa! What a sight when I saw her lying on her back. Arianne had big, round, fat breasts that wallowed on top of her chest and didn't flop to the sides. When she was dressed, they tended to bulge outwards at the sides of her dress. On her back, they looked even more spectacular. Below her breasts, her stomach and pot tummy rose up a bit more than I remembered. I patted Arianne on her stomach.

"You gain about ten pounds? You look good. Nice, soft cushion here." I gave Arianne a lick on her stomach starting just above her crotch and going all the way up to her breasts.

"Yeah, about ten pounds," said Arianne. "I can still fit into a size sixteen dress without any trouble, though. Most of those ten pounds went to the roll below my belly button. I got those ten pounds worrying about you. Now that you're home, maybe I'll be able to lose them."

"You're fine as you are," I said. "If you lose them, that's fine. If you don't, that's fine, too. I'll just have more to play with." I licked a circle around Arianne's nipples. Her entire body stiffened a little.

"You love every pound, don't you, Alice?"

"I sure do. More to lick."

"You're just like me," said Arianne. You like your women big, too."

That wasn't true, but I didn't bother to reply. I didn't want to spoil the mood. I lay down on the bed beside Arianne and she moved her hands above my flat chest. "This is where your nipples were," said Arianne. The sensation was bizarre. I could almost feel her fingers pinching my nipples several inches above where they actually were. Arianne moved a fingertip above my stomach. "Your belly button was right here." I could actually feel her finger circling my belly button that wasn't there. Arianne moved her hands below my belly button, pretending to pinch a roll of flesh. I could feel her pinching and massaging the pot tummy that I didn't have anymore. She did the same with my hips and butt. I was intensely aware of all the missing flesh on my body. It bothered me not to feel anything jiggle when I moved.

Arianne licked me on my breasts, stomach, and non-existing tum, but the sensation lacked the intensity that it had had when I had been well-fleshed and buxom. I suspected that licking my flat, curveless body wasn't much fun for Arianne. None of me squished and jiggled under her pressing tongue.

I lay on top of Arianne and nuzzled my face next to hers while I gave her my fingers between her legs one by one. Her soft breasts squished beneath me and generated the warmth of an electric blanket as she began to pant. One finger, two fingers, three fingers. Four fingers and the fist were too much for both of us. As Arianne began to pant faster and faster, I switched positions, and flicked my tongue in just the right spot. Instant spasm.

After Arianne caught her breath, I rolled her on top of me, feeling all of her squishy warm flesh spill all over me like melted chocolate. One finger, two, three. As Joan Jett screeched from the player on Arianne's dresser, she gave me her tongue.

End of Chapter 6

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 5

 

Chapter 7: "The Beginning of the End"

The people who lived in America's homeless encampments were what I called "the people of the abyss." They were the unfortunates who had fallen through all the cracks and crevices of the holy free market and ended up at the bottom of the sea of unregulated, dog-eat-dog capitalism. They were the people that I had been rubbing shoulders with for over 25 years. I saw them in Arianne's face every time I looked at her. I had been their friend, their "Princess of Thieves," and now I aimed to be their "Moses." I wondered if I had it in me to be that kind of leader. Or was I leading them straight over the edge of a cliff? I knew that they had been waiting for an opportunity to rebel. They needed a leader, and there was no one left but me. I thought of the revolt in Wonderland against the two queens when Griffin had been killed. The Jabberwock was still there, and there was no one left but me. "Why me?" I thought. A moment for self-pity, and then I pushed it out of my mind.

On the fourth of September, Hatter and I, in disguise, researched on the internet in a small café in Paris the locations of all of the big American investment banks, their secondary offices which had clones of their databases, and all of the big cloud servers which housed their online backups. We obtained lists of their overseas locations as well. With this data in hand, we were ready.

Back in Wonderland, I created a list of one hundred large homeless encampments that were located near the targets and prepared a letter explaining my plan. I put the letter on old, junk flash drives that were considered obselete because they only had two gigabytes of space. For my plan to work, I needed the cooperation of everyone in those one hundred homeless encampments. I delivered my "rebel letter" in person that night and immediately ran into recognition problems. If it weren't for my emerging from smoke portals, I think more than a few homeless encampment leaders would have thought that I was an imposter. Forty-five pounds thinner, having no feminine curves, and having a face more like Audrey Hepburn than Judy Garland, I was simply unrecognizable. Homeless encampment leaders stared at me as if I had risen from a graveyard. In a way, I suppose I had: I hadn't been seen in seven months, and the U.S. government had celebrated my death. The leaders stared at my face, and then, in a few moments, came the welcomes. I was mobbed. Some homeless encampment leaders expressed doubts of my plan, and said that most of their residents wouldn't go for it. Most of the homeless encampment leaders, however, said that their residents had been waiting for such a moment. The fact that the U.S. government thought that I was dead had opened a window.

End of Chapter 7

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

Chapter 8: "The Rebel Letter"

Remember, remember the sixth of September, the day the overclass treason fell to the plot. The day we pulled the rug out from under the investor class parasites. The plan is simple: destroy the big mainframe computers in the large investment banks. Those big mainframe computers contain the databases of all the financial transactions that the banks engage in. Most of the money in the world does not consist of currency and coins. It is digital. It is created by banks out of thin air when they loan money. Destroy the mainframe computers, and you destroy the financial databases. Destroy the financial databases, and you destroy the digital money. Destroy the digital money, and you destroy the loan repayment plans. Destroy the loan repayment plans, and you destroy the ball and anchor around the ankle of every ordinary citizen in the United States. Destroy the banks and the U.S. dollar turns into the vapor that it is. The evil system of people as commodities to be enslaved by debt, used, and discarded shall be no more! Thanks be to the oligarchs for their monopolistic tendencies! There are only a few big banks that control most of the economy, so destroying all of them can be done in a single night. I will take care of the corporate backups on cloud servers and second offices myself.

I will be traveling to a specific selection of homeless encampments, including this one, in the late night hours of September fifth, and the early morning hours of September sixth. This will be the night that we steal something besides food: guns. Lots and lots of guns. And ammo.

I am back and I am pissed.

\- Alice

End of Chapter 8

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

"All hail to the mob!"

-James Connolly (Irish republican independence fighter who was executed by the British in 1916)

Chapter 9: "The People of the Abyss"

In the late night hours of September fifth and the early morning hours of September sixth, I led ransackings of gun shops all across the U.S. I took a hit of rage potion before every gun shop robbery on the assumption that there would be at least one armed guard. The abuse of my body was horrific. Machine guns, semi-automatic pistols, high-powered hunting rifles - we stole them all along with vast quantities of ammunition. Most gun shops were protected by heavy solid metal rolling shutters. No guards. I startled more than a few of the homeless when I ripped those shutters off with my bare hands. We robbed gas stations for fuel and auto parts stores for motor oil in a few places so the fighters could create a few cases of molotov cocktails before they left for attacks. As each robbery was finished, I opened a portal direct to the nearby target bank, and the fighters were then left to their own leadership. I always left them within walking distance of their own encampments. I didn't have time to stick around to provide a return portal. I had to be quick. Robbery, attack, robbery, attack, robbery, attack. The pace was relentless throughout the night, and I was panting for breath by morning. The repeated doses of rage potion had my head spinning. And there were still the cloud servers and secondary offices to attack. I took care of those with jackbombs.

I'd be lying to say that all of the homeless encampments signed on. A few refused to participate because they believed that the chance of success was zero. They had been beaten down for so long that they thought the government was unassailable. In those cases, I sometimes carried out the attack on the bank buildings myself because it was the quickest, albeit slower, option available. In a few cases, I just skipped that planned assault because of the time factor. In the end, I didn't need to worry. Homeless encampments that I had not visited carried out their own assaults on banks and invariably included my missed targets in their attacks. I had not expected so many homeless encampments that I had skipped over to take the initiative on their own. Unfortunately, they also attacked some targets that I would never have considered, such as residential areas.

The cable news organizations were caught flat-footed and bewildered. The revolution was not televised. It was on YouTube. Thousands of videos of destroyed mainframe computers in the big investment banks went viral, and videos of a few dozen of the biggest investment bank locations burning from molotov cocktails tossed in their lobbies also flooded YouTube. The stock markets were closed for Labor Day and had to wait until tomorrow to collapse. The U.S. dollar became worthless in hours. The Chinese, sitting on mountains of U.S. digital dollars built up over the course of decades of trade surpluses with the U.S. were furious and demanded payment in gold. They sent gunships, but there was no U.S. government to negotiate with. I had made sure of that.

End of Chapter 9

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

Chapter 10: "Sacrament"

To the roof of an abandoned hotel in Washington D.C. in sight of the ruins of the Capitol Building, I had brought the Jabberwock Eyestaff and a very large, flat rock. I gave myself two doses of rage potion, one in each eye, and was surprised by the result. There was no Queen of Hearts, not any more. I was Medusa. There was no blackout. No period that I could not remember. I aimed the Eyestaff directly at the ground in front of the Angel's Sword still stuck in a small remnant of the Capitol Building and fired until the Eyestaff was drained. Sharpshooters on rooftops everywhere opened fire, but I was safe behind the ventilation housing. Bullets ricocheted just beyond me by the thousands. I felt like Faith in "Mirror's Edge." Opening mental portals, I flashed from rooftop to rooftop beheading one sniper after another until I had eliminated every one that I knew of. I flashed to the ground near the Angel's Sword and tossed the flat rock onto the ground directly in front of it. BOOM! The rock launched in the air and fell straight back down. I stepped on the rock, touched the handle of the Angel's Sword to see how hot it was, saw the flame extinguish, and yanked on it. One tug and the Sword was mine. The handle was uncomfortably warm, but not intolerably so. The entire Sword cooled in mere seconds, and I sheathed it in an oily fur-lined leather sword scabbard on my hip that the Gnome Elder had once presented to me as a gift. The fit was perfect.

Back to Wonderland with the Sword, a quick change to a red, knee-length dress and a red beret, and off I went to an internet café in Paris to search Flickr and YouTube for any hints to the entrance to the underground bunker of the United States government. I had only to check my messages at YouTube to find my answer. I had received a link to a private video of a starving teenaged vagrant dressed in rags leading someone with a cell phone to what looked like the entrance to an abandoned subway station. The teenager continued into the tunnel which was dimly lit by skylights disguised as drainholes in parking lots above. He pointed to a heavy metal door with a series of deadbolt locks. "This is what you seek," is all he said. There had been no guards anywhere in sight in the video. No other people at all. I did consider the possibility of a trap, but the homeless teenager had obviously suffered greatly and struck me as a very unlikely ally of the government that had retreated to a bunker twenty-five years ago to financially strip the United States of everything of value.

I returned to Wonderland to retrieve my Eyestaff and Angel's Sword and opened a portal to the entrance in the video. The Eyestaff wasn't completely recharged, but it was enough to blast the first door off its hinges. There was a stairway and a second door. With no charge in the Eyestaff, I carved an opening in the heavy, metal door with the Angel's Sword. Farther down the stairway and another metal door with a series of deadbolt locks. I wondered how many there would be. I carved my way through a total of ten metal doors with a series of deadbolt locks before I saw a hallway which led to the government chambers. Another hit of rage potion, and I continued walking until I verified that this was indeed the functioning U.S. government. Secret Service agents dashed out to greet me with gunfire as I inspected the labels on office doors, and I laughed in their faces as the bullets they fired hit me and simply dropped to the floor. No penetration. I didn't feel anything. I grabbed one Secret Service agent who had unloaded an entire clip into me and ripped his head off with my bare hands. I rolled the head down the hallway. I had seen enough.

I flashed myself back to the entry to the hallway. I could have gone into the offices one-by-one chopping off heads, but I didn't really want to do that. In general, I only chop off heads when I'm being shot at. The decision of the moral course of action was something I preferred to leave to the Angel's Sword. I had once before seen that the Angel's Sword had a moral sensibility all of its own. When I had thrown it into the Capitol Building, the blade caught fire the instant it became embedded in the wall, but did nothing more for twelve hours. It gave a warning. Then the flame on the blade jumped to the building and completely covered it. The entire process was obviously intended as a warning. I wondered what the blade would do this time if I simply stuck it into the floor. I was quite willing to leave the decision of what to do with all these social darwinist tools of the oligarchy to the Sword. I hesitated only a moment, and then I stabbed the Angel's Sword deeply into the floor. A split in the floor raced down the hallway. After a few seconds, the split began to widen, and the floor began to tilt downwards into the slit at a steadily increasing angle. I saw an orange glow of what looked like lava, and it dawned on me that using the Sword to chop off heads would have been more merciful. There was to be no warning this time. The first warning had been ignored. Leaving the Sword to finish its work, I flashed out through a portal, and left the inhabitants of the underground bunker to the lava pit awaiting them. I felt no guilt.

In the world above, YouTube was full of videos of burning investment banks. Skyscrapers. The proud, penile erections of the oligarchy blazed for all the world to see. One by one they collapsed revealing the impotence of their creators.

End of Chapter 10

This story is based on the characters created my American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

Chapter 11: "The Mathematics of a Dream"

The hardest part of any revolution is not overthrowing the hated tyranny. It's what you do the day after you've won. Fortunately for everyone concerned, the U.S. military stayed in its barracks. The homeless bands had hit so fast in so many places that the U.S. military was unable to respond. There was no front line. No guerilla army with a centralized command. Very few dead bodies lying around. Our revolution was the first to be carried out against an abstraction: instead of warring against a government, we warred against the money system which supported and controlled the government. Money was debt. Debt was money. We destroyed the system of debt slavery. The U.S. military was baffled. What were they going to do? Round up all the homeless people and put them in concentration camps? The U.S. dollar had already collapsed. What was the point?

Some of the state governors had attempted to mobilize their National Guard regiments, but without success. When the governors made their call-up, very few National Guard members answered the call. Who could blame them? They were watching the chaos on TV. Who wanted to die to protect computerized databases of banks? Their instincts for self-preservation kicked in, and they simply ignored the call-up. Who was going to arrest them? The local police forces? The local police were too busy with all the criminals taking advantage of the chaos to arrest National Guardsment who ignored their call-up. Oh, yes, there was looting. The downtrodden, underpaid working class were everywhere looting appliance stores for refrigerators, washing machines, dryers, TVs, and computers. They looted furniture stores for beds and sofas. In some locations, the police, aware that a revolution was taking place, simply stood by and watched the looting making sure that no one shot at anyone else.

Fox news attempted to stir up a ruckus by baiting me with videos of homeless mobs entering gated communities and setting McMansions on fire. There were a few horrific scenes of firemen coming out of burning homes with dead, blackened babies in their arms. To listen to Fox News, you would think that I was personally responsible for each dead baby. I never gave Fox News a reply. You see, the homeless communities that began torching McMansions were located near gated communities whose teenagers had once engaged in the ugly sport of "torchlighting." That was when a band of teenagers would get together and go searching for homeless people sleeping alone under bridges, in the brush, or in the woods in a tent. They would pour gasoline on the homeless person until he, or she in a few cases, sputtered awake. Then they threw a match. The police did not investigate murders outside the gated communities. There was no law and order outside the gated communities. This was the beginning of homeless people congregating in encampments and arming themselves for protection. With so many homeless war veterans around, there was no shortage of people willing to become guards for homeless encampments. What did the people in the gated communities expect when they had remained silent for so long as their kids went out and killed "bums" for fun? Did they think that a day of reckoning would never come? I was sad that some groups of homeless had committed atrocities, but I held my tongue. I was no guerrilla commander, and I was in no positon to impose battlefield discipline on anyone. Compared to Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, I was a joke. I had carried out a revolution not with soldiers, but with armed mobs. The commanders were the leaders of the homeless encampments, and I deferred to them.

The outflow of refugees started almost immediately. With Fox News whipping up a hysteria over the handful of mob invasions of gated communities, the wealthy were fleeing everywhere with only a suitcase thrown into the back of their Mercedes. Well, with all of the wealth that they had stashed abroad, it's not like they were fleeing with only the clothes on their backs. As I watched Fox News on a TV in a community center that was still open, I couldn't help but think "Good riddance!" as they sped away toward the Canadian or Mexican border, whichever was closest. Some of the millionaires in Florida sailed away toward the Bahamas in their yachts. The Canadians very quickly became pissed off at the large number of Americans shoving their way across the border and limited the Americans to a two-week transit visa to find some other country of asylum. The wealthy refugees found very little sympathy in Canada as the Canadian political scene was nearly the polar opposite of American-style social darwinism. Wealthy Americans who made the mistake of fleeing across the border into Mexico found themselves in the position of a floating, bloody hunk of meat in a shark tank. It didn't take long for Mexican street criminals to strip most fleeing Americans of their all of their personal belongings - including their cars. Some Americans were marched into banks and forced to arrange wire transfers of nearly all of their wealth into accounts specified by criminals to get back a son or daughter being held hostage. Mexico was an education in social darwinism at its purest for the American refugees. There, it was the criminals rather than the richest who were at the top of the social pyramid. Anything for money was the only law that mattered. Some of the American refugees in Mexico - especially healthy young adults - left that country minus a kidney. Theft of organs was not an urban legend in Mexico.

My first worry the morning after was that it would take the homeless victors too long to get organized and put together an alternative government. I was afraid that the U.S. military would step into the gap. I needn't have worried. The primary concern of the generals was getting U.S. occupation forces out of Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. They found themselves having to use the gold in Fort Knox to pay for fuel. Somehow they had access to it. They also wanted to withdraw U.S. forces from Saudi Arabia which were propping up the royal family dictatorship. It seems even generals can get weary of war. The U.S. had been involved in wars in Muslim countries continuously since 2001. One day of the government of the twelve percent being gone and already the troops were coming home. With the elite bailing out everywhere and heading for the borders, the encampment councils of the homeless became the new local governments. While Fox News screamed of the establishment of "Soviets" in the U.S., the new local governments declared all vacant houses to be public property and started moving homeless families in. This gave me the idea of taking the leaders of all of the homeless encampments that I had worked with for so long to Washington D.C. where they would form a new provisional parliament that would run the country for the next five years. I spent most of the first day after the overthrow doing just this, and marveled that the lights and water continued to work. A lot of people with essential jobs such as utility workers and hospital employees showed up for work in spite of the uncertainty. Nearly every retail store and restaurant, however, was closed. That first day was unnerving chaos, but a lot more went right than wrong.

At a heavily guarded summit of the country's homeless encampment leaders in Washington, D.C. the second morning after the overthrow, I led a discussion on what type of economic system to put into place to replace the chaos that we had created. I was in favor of the same system that we had in Wonderland, but the homeless encampment leaders were almost all opposed. They said that while such a system worked in the isolated homeless encampments where everyone knew each other, it could not possibly work on a large scale. They all said the same thing: most people would have no incentive to work. They argued that the solidarity in the homeless encampments that caused people to offer their talents for free would not work on a national scale where the recipients of people's labor were total strangers. Most of the homeless encampment leaders wanted a one-party Communist state modeled after the socialist republics of Cuba, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and Chile. My heart sank at this. The opportunity existed in the United States to go further than any revolution had gone before, and I did not want the opportunity to be pissed away like the opportunity that had existed in 2009 when Barack Obama became the first non-white president of the U.S. He had the world in his hands. He could have been a historic figure like Franklin D. Roosevelt. He pissed everything away. In 2032, he was one of America's forgotten presidents, like James Buchanan. No, no, no! No socialist republic in the U.S. Even the socialist republics used money and had prices on everything. There had to be a better way.

"What if we made basic necessities all free and used a currency to allocate access to luxuries?" I asked. "What if we combined all the factories into vertically integrated combinations that sold their goods to the federal government in return for luxury credits? The factories could then distribute the luxury credits to their employees to create an incentive to work. The federal government could distribute produced necessities for free using what used to be big box stores as distribution centers. No prices. No cash registers. No locks. No theft. You can't steal what's free. Surplus goods could be bartered abroad in return for luxury goods that we weren't producing or were producing only in small quantities. People who worked in service businesses that didn't produce any goods could be paid directly in luxury credits. The goal would be eventually to move as many goods as possible, one-by-one, from the luxury category to the necessity category. We might not be able to recreate the anarchist commune of Wonderland in this world, but we could try to come as close as possible."

The homeless encampment leaders looked at me as if they couldn't figure out whether I was inspired or crazy. "What about small businesses?" one asked. "Do you propose to have all businesses government-owned? Or would people be able to run small businesses?"

"Since all goods in the necessity category would be free, I can't see any need for retailers," I said. "Small businesses that offered services such as restaurants, barber shops, beauty salons, fix-it shops, and auto repair shops would be able to exist by selling their services in return for luxury credits. So it seems that small businesses not operated by the government could exist."

"What about agriculture?" asked another leader.

"Break up the big corporate farms into as many small farms that could be family-managed as possible," I said. "The federal government would take ownership of the land and parcel it out rent-free to anyone that wanted to farm for a living. This type of system has already existed in another country. These set-asides were known as ejidos in Mexico after the Mexican Revolution of 1910 - 1920. Large collective farms never worked very well in the Soviet bloc. Our corporate farms may have been efficient, but they were destroying the soil with all their mono-cropping, fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides. Farmers could sell their yield to the federal government for luxury credits the same as vertically-integrated factory combinations. Most of the food would be distributed for free, with the surplus being bartered abroad for goods we don't produce and luxuries. The ejidos worked for Mexico. I don't see why they wouldn't work for us."

The leader I knew as "Q" from Arianne's old homeless encampment located behind my insane asylum raised his hand and proposed a vote on the type of economic system I had just proposed. "Raise your hand if you're in favor," he said. Q raised his hand. Then another leader raised his hand. And another. And another. Within ten minutes, every hand was raised. It was decided. The United States would be the first country on Earth to make the basic necessities of life unpriced and free. Twenty-four hours later, we had the assent of the generals in the U.S. military who vowed to defer to the new civilian republic.

I went home to Wonderland and told Hatter that the "Princess of Thieves" had officially retired. Hatter took me in his arms and shed a few silent tears of relief. "Dance with me," Hatter said. And so three days after the revolution, I danced a waltz with my loyal old friend.

End of Chapter 11

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 2

 

Chapter 12: "Nightmare"

It didn't take long for the negative consequences of destroying the nation's currency to show itself. Stripped of the ability to import just about everything from China, the United States now had to begin producing goods for itself. It was astonishing just how completely the manufacturing base of the country had been stripped. Factories that were relatively modern had been dismantled and shipped abroad. There was nothing left but antiquated factories that hadn't been worth dismantling. For more than half a century these relics of the age when U.S. manufacturing led the world had stood with broken windows and decades of dust gathering on rusting machinery. It had been so long since Americans had been accustomed to working in factories that even the oldest had not a clue where to begin in attempting to restore what had once been the most fabulous machines on Earth.

There was not one factory in the U.S. that produced clothes. Not one factory that produced shoes. Not one factory that produced light bulbs. The list of goods that we no longer produced was endless. The flight of the upper middle class had also stripped the country of most of its doctors. It was the "Solidarity Brigades" from the five socialist republics, Cuba, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and Chile, that saved us. The Cubans sent doctors, the Portuguese and Italians sent experts on resurrecting antiquated, rusting factory machinery, the Greeks sent agricultural experts to aid in shifting to crops suitable for arid zones, and the Chileans sent experts in managing a siege economy. In a world of mostly rapacious, social-darwinist capitalism, the five socialist republics managed siege economies that attempted as great a degree of self-sufficiency as possible. They had no one to trade with but each other. The capitalist states of the world had embargoed them, and the social democratic states such as the Scandinavian countries, France, Germany, and Canada, had been bullied and intimidated into not trading with the socialist republics. Canada allowed their citizens to travel in Cuba, but trading goods was forbidden.

Agriculture became the one bright spot. Apportioning small plots of agricultural land to anyone who wanted to farm and providing them the basic farm implements had the effect of greatly boosting the production of grains and vegetables - and greatly reducing the quantity of meat. Shoveling grain into animals to produce flesh for carnivores became a frowned-upon practice that was regarded as wasteful. Every schoolchild was taught how many pounds of grain it took to produce one pound of meat. Even more shocking was the amount of water it took to produce a pound of meat. Anyway, with all that grain and all those vegetables, hunger was wiped out within six months of the overthrow. There were no food shortages. Carnivores suffered a bit - meat was considered a luxury. If you wanted meat, you had to go out and shoot it. Well, maybe it was time that the city dwellers understood once and for all that eating meat involved killing. Perhaps going to the grocery store and buying animal flesh had become a bit too sanitized for people to realize what they were actually doing. Farm families, of course, always knew where the meat came from. Sometimes dinner even had a name.

The porous border became a major problem. The expatriot billionaires were not about to quietly accept having what they regarded as their own private property being yanked out from under their precious spreadsheets. The once warred-upon Mexican drug cartels became allies of the expatriate American oligarchy. Money can buy anything. Mexican drug cartels sent infiltrators across the border into the U.S. where they unleased a campaign of suicide terrorism the likes of which hadn't been seen since the Palestinians had disgraced themselves blowing up Israeli schoolchildren. Poor Mexicans sold their lives on the promise that their families would be provided for. In a land of desperation and starvation, the list of volunteers willing to kill themselves to provide for their families was endless. Nowhere in the United States was safe. Subways, railroads, airports, government buildings, city councils, the list of targets was endless. Not a single day went by without a terrorist bomb exploding somewhere in the contiguous 48 states. Winning the revolution had been a cakewalk. Surviving the siege that came soon after was a nightmare.

Like the establishment of the Soviet Union, the establishment of the Second Republic in the United States took over a decade. The terrorists funded from abroad waged a relentless campaign of sabotage and demoralization. It wasn't enough to keep blowing up factories multiple times after they were up and running, the terrorists waged a campaign of violence directed at children to make the adults lose hope in the future. The provisional government, after months of dithering, finally decided that there was no choice: the United States built a new "Berlin Wall" on the southern border with Mexico and created a "death strip" a half-mile wide on our side of the border. Anyone who made it over the high concrete wall with a barbed-wire top still had to survive a half mile of vibration-sensitive land mines. Digging under the wall was not an option to get around the obstacles. The vibration-sensitive mines exploded at the slightest hint of digging or disturbance. Even tumbleweeds, birds, and small animals occasionally set off a mine. The wall did significantly reduce the amount of terrorism in the U.S., but it did not come close to eliminating it. On the advice of the Cubans, the provisional government set up a full-blown police state in the U.S. There was no gulag, but any contact with oligarchs from abroad landed citizens in prisoner-of-war camps. The federal and state prisons which the new government had recently emptied of all but violent prisoners sadly found a new use. The idealism of the first months died a sudden death. In the space of a single year, the new republic became a land of fear where people looked over their shoulders and watched what they said. The Cubans said it was unavoidable. Every revolution has to deal with its implacable enemies. All we could do, they said, was dig in our heels and wait for the old privileged class that had fled abroad to die off. The price of freedom from exploitation was the loss of personal liberty and constant vigilance. Even so, watching the state and federal prisons that oh-so-recently had been emptied of drug users, prostitutes, and grocery store shoplifters fill up again with "enemies of the state" took a piece of my soul. I kept reminding myself that it was necessary for the revolution to survive, but my heart was breaking.

End of Chapter 12

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

 

Chapter 13: "The Venus Project"

Six months after the revolution, I went back to the underground tunnel leading to the U.S. government bunker to retrieve the Angel's Sword. The gaping open slit to a live volcano was still there providing an eerie orange glow to an otherwise lightless area. I switched on a penlight and pulled on the Sword. It slid out of the ground for me as easily as a knife through cake. The open volcanic slit slowly knitted itself shut. Except for the glow of the penlight, I was surrounded by pitch blackness. I made my way back up the stairs hoping I would never visit this place again. I now knew that if I used the Angel's Sword for a supernatural purpose, I would have to retrieve it the old-fashioned way. Whatever the Sword had done would stay in effect until I pulled it out of its perch.

Arianne finally asked me the question that I had been awaiting for twenty-five years. "If you can't open a portal to places you can't visualize, then how did you open a portal to the vestibule of Hell when you kidnapped the Senators?" My answer raised another question that even I did not know the answer to.

"During training, Caterpillar showed me what could happen if I tried to open a portal to someplace without knowing exactly where and what it was. He opened a portal to the vestibule of Hell. I recognized it instantly and never forgot it. The real question is where did Caterpillar learn the location of the vestibule of Hell?" I let this sink in on Arianne. I could tell in her face that she was wondering just who Caterpillar really was. I asked him precisely that question once myself. Caterpillar declared that he was the "Guardian of Sanity" in Wonderland. He refused to be any more precise than that. Sometimes I think he's one of those creatures you find in Terrestrial Paradise in Purgatory who has taken up residence on Earth. I'm inclined to think that my friend and ally Gryphon was also from Terrestrial Paradise. I'm hoping someday to see him again.

The exiled American oligarchs' arrogance and sense of untouchability was their undoing. Even in countries that adhered to the social darwinist international order, there were laws restricting doing business with certain countries and organizations. The Mexican drug cartels were considered terrorist organizations, and the oligarchs' failure to hide their doings with the Mexicans resulted in mass sweeps and jailings in Europe, Japan, and India. If the exiled oligarchs had had the good sense to be discreet in their dealings with the Mexicans, they might have remained free. They could have simply lived the good life off their investments and ignored the world around them if they had wanted, but they insisted on regaining their lost properties in the United States. The concept of "enough" was unknown to them.

The Europeans had good reason to despise the Mexican drug cartels. Since the collapse of the plutocracy in the United States, the Mexican drug cartels had lost their best drug customers, and switched their marketing and sales to Europe, instead. The Europeans, with their own drug wars to fight, cracked down hard and began to fill their prisons with drug traffickers. Only the socialist countries in Europe had found a way to defeat the drug traffickers.

Do you really want to get rid of the drug trade? It's easy. All you have to do is legalize the sale of recreational drugs, and the astronomical profit margins crash to earth almost instantly. Using a nonconvertible currency does the rest.

A visit to the Cuban doctors in Havana who had treated me got me a clean bill of health. They informed me that I had fully recovered and would not need any further checkups. According to their scales, I had gained another seven kilos which put me up two dress sizes. It was enough to give me back my face and some modest feminine curves. I looked like a normal person again. I had dragged my old size twelve dresses out of storage and they fit perfectly. They were the same dresses I had worn when I met Arianne for the first time and when I kidnapped the U.S. Senate twenty-five years ago. I didn't mind not being the voluptuous, buxom sexpot that I had been at all.

Arianne seemed to mind, though. I could tell that Arianne missed her soft, squishy teddy bear. She was just out of luck. I had started swinging on the vines in Wonderland Woods again - something I hadn't done in over two decades. I had been too heavy and the vines all broke. I had gotten used to being lighter on my feet and engaging in physical activities that had once been impractical. I could once again shinny up a tree without my boobs and ass getting caught on branches. It was rare for a branch to break underneath me. Arianne was just out of luck. I was enjoying not being voluptuous.

I do admit that there were occasions when I missed having a big chest and even bigger ass to throw around. Like when I walked past the gnome village. The gnome men didn't stare at me any more. I missed the little wankers staring at my jiggling ass until they turned blue and fainted. I felt like the sexiest woman on earth when they did that. Oh, well…

The Cuban doctors also discovered something that I already instinctively knew. Before the anti-terror squad filled me full of holes, I had had nine rage potion glands scattered throughout my body. They looked like tiny replicas of the adrenal glands. Hatter said they functioned in concert with the adrenal glands. Nine rage potion glands. A CAT scan at my checkup revealed that I now had over 100 of those rage potion glands. The Cuban doctors believed that they hadn't found them all yet. The anti-terror assholes had tried to kill me and instead had only succeeded in making me more than ten times stronger. Arianne reminded me that I wasn't Supergirl. I didn't need her to tell me that. The scars on my body were a constant reminder. Everytime I took a shower or got dressed, I got a reminder of just how lucky I was to still be alive. Fortunately for my vanity, the scars were quite faded and not so obvious. I think I could thank the rage potion for the fading of the scars as well as my survival.

Things in Wonderland may have been going well, but the situation in the world uptop was mixed at best. The Chinese and Russians were pissed at finding themselves stuck with a metaphorical mountain of worthless American currency. They sent gunboats to U.S. ports along the west coast. They demanded payment in gold for the trade debt that the U.S. had been running up for decades. The provisional parliament decided that it was better to pay off the Chinese and Russians than risk a war, and split all of the gold reserves between the two according to the percentage of debt each held. The gold didn't cover the entire debt, but after being told "Take it or leave it," the Chinese and Russians both took what they could get and went away. The provisional parliament didn't care about the gold at all. "Thank heaven they didn't demand payment in grain!" commented one representative. It seemed that the revolution had succeeded in teaching a more rational conception of value. Americans were no longer obsessed with shiny metals and amassing big numbers on bank statements and stock portfolios.

In the new economy, it was astounding how many service occupations had nearly disappeared or completely disappeared. The sheer valuelessness of such activities was now apparent to all. Cashiers, bank tellers, loan officers, accountants, insurance agents, actuaries, advertising copywriters, public relations managers, security guards, fast food restaurant counter workers and kitchen employees, retail clerks, hotel clerks, and so many other occupations either diminished greatly or vanished outright. In a world where everyone enjoyed a measure of economic security, the insurance industry vanished overnight. So did the payday loan sharks and mortgage brokers. Good riddance to those! So many jobs had existed solely for the purpose of putting cash into the hands of distant, unseen investors. These jobs produced nothing of lasting value and were soul-destroying for the poor unfortunates who toiled for a paycheck and nothing more. Workers needed to feel that their daily activities mattered in the long run. Who was really hurt when a fast food restaurant employee failed to show up for work? Other than the other employees who were stuck with picking up the slack, no one but the distant, unseen investor. If the bank accountant didn't show up to grind his numbers, who really was hurt? Again, only the fellow employees who had to pick up the slack and the distant, unseen investors. People started to realize that those distant, unseen investors were, in reality, simply a new type of slavemaster.

I wondered why there had been no violent revolts against the billionaires in their mansions and vast estates in the past. Deep down inside, I thought that they were murderers. Depriving people of necessities because of inability to pay was a passive sort of murder. What great writer was it who spoke of "the banality of evil"? The evil of the billionaires had become so mundane that most people yawned at it and simply accepted it as part of the social order. What made this bullying of the financial type so socially acceptable? Why had so many of us become numb to the suffering of others? Oh, yes. Now I remember. The writer's name was Hannah Arendt. She posed the possibility that evil was simply a function of thoughtlessness and mindless acceptance. To be evil, all you have to do is be a mindless drone, sleepwalking through life and letting yourself be herded by manipulators.

The provisional government finally sorted out the establishment of a formal government. There would be a parliament of 501 representatives chosen by a lottery using social security numbers for people aged 35 to 60. Every year 100 or 101 of them would be replaced. The term of service would be five years with everyone who completed service being exempt from further terms. I was thrilled that there would be none of the old-style electioneering in the new republic.

The new republic's jail cells began to empty out again. Lawyers and judges found themselves twiddling their thumbs. Those against whom evidence had been purely circumstancial were simply released. Those whose innocence seemed questionable were given a choice of exile in a foreign country or taking up residence on one of the new republic's remaining island possessions. Quite a few chose exile over a remote island. Those who were clearly guilty of conspiring with the oligarchs got no mercy and were moved to the newly rebuilt prison on Alcatraz Island. Everyone on Alcatraz had a life sentence. The new republic had banned capital punishment - even for treason.

The drones that I had feared so much were gone. Armed or unarmed, they were gone. The provisional government decided that they could not justify the invasion of privacy with mechanical spies in the sky. It went without saying that the risk of killing innocents with armed drones was totally unacceptable.

A place that was the exact opposite of the old order was arising from the debris in Detroit. The old city, its ruins really, was being razed so that a new, planned city could be created. This new city was to be circular in design with light rail running like the spokes of a wheel from the city center to the outer rim. Inside the outer rim, concentric circles of elevated light rail tracks completed the public transportation system. Inside the city, you would be able to get from anywhere to anywhere by riding the trains and walking just a bit. No cars would be necessary. Not even buses. Public taxies would exist on call for the handicapped who were unable to use the rail lines.

The center of the city would be located under a dome and would house computerized control centers, schools and a university, libraries, communications centers, a hospital, and child care facilities. Buildings located along the inner concentric circles would house cultural centers such as theaters, museums, and concert halls. There would also be restaurants and inns for travelers. Some shops such as bookstores, coffee shops, and internet cafes would also be located in this area. In the central concentric circles would be research centers. Restaurants and other amenities would be located nearby. Just beyond these circles would be located the agricultural zones, greenhouses, and hydroponics facilities where people would also work. Next would be the residential circles, and along the outer perimeter would be outdoor recreational facilities and clean energy generators such as windmills, solar batteries, and geothermal power stations.

Everything would be available to people without cost. One would not even need luxury credits to live in the city, although places to spend such currency would be permitted inside the city. The whole point of this new, planned city, designed by a group of futuristic architects calling themselves "The Venus Project," would be to eliminate the chaos and waste of traditional unplanned cities. I could not wait to see the city when it was completed.

End of Chapter 13

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) holds the copyrights.

Version 3

 

Chapter 14: "Requiem"

The revolution came too late. This sense of impending doom had been haunting me since the wave of terrorist attacks that came after the overthrow had died out. The Chinese and Russians had been bought off with the gold stored in Fort Knox. It was cheaper to just pay them off than to fight them. So what was the trouble? The malarial death zones were spreading. Each year the zones spread out a little further horizontally and spread both north and south just a few more miles. Each year, the degree of spread increased a little.

One day I asked Hatter while he was in his laboratory why it was that I couldn't remember robbing any grocery stores in North Dakota or Wyoming in the last few years before the revolution. Hatter stared at me in astonishment.

"Alice! I'm astounded at you! Sometimes the gaps in your knowledge of the world above really take me aback." Hatter saved his work and shut down his computer. "Come take a trip with me. Let's go to Wyoming." Hatter took out his bong and filled it with Caterpillar's smoke portal powder. A match and a few puffs and a hazy, swirling, multicolored portal drifted in front of us. Hatter stepped through first.

We stepped out into what could only be described as a dustscape. Hot and arid, there was not a single green plant visible. It sure didn't look like autumn. I slowly turned in all directions and spied only fracking drilling rigs looming out of the landscape. There were no other landmarks at all. The shifting dust, which reminded me of sand dunes in the Sahara Desert, had obscured any roads that might have been present. The sky was crystal-clear cerulean blue and cloudless. Hatter took me to several other locations in Wyoming. There were a few buildings half-buried in dust in addition to the fracking drilling rigs. Dust drifted in their open, glassless windows. Everything else was the same. Dust shifting in the wind. No roads visible. Only the fracking drilling rigs rose up out of the landscape in most directions. I thought of Ozymandius.

Hatter took me to North Dakota. More of the same. Hatter explained what I had seen. "Alice, fracking fluids contaminated the groundwater for the entire states of Wyoming and North Dakota. Global climate change stripped away what little rain the Great Plains states got. What you saw was the result. Wyoming and North Dakota are completely lifeless. Not even cacti will grow there. Did you notice that there were no tumbleweeds?"

Hatter took me into his laboratory and showed me some scientific formulas that he had been working on. "My best current estimates," he said. He started up a program which showed a slowly twirling 3D globe. "This program, using my current formula, projects the spread of lifeless zones all over the planet. Global climate change is steadily increasing the size of deserts which are unable to support human life. The malarial death zones are also steadily increasing in size. If you combine the two, add in areas destroyed by the poisoning of groundwater by fracking, and project into the future using current rates of exponential growth, climate change, malaria, and groundwater poisoning will render the entire earth unfit for human habitation by 2100.

Civilization will die much sooner than that. Spreading starvation and social darwinist attitudes among wealthy elites ensure that for most people, life will become a kill-or-be-killed propositon. Cannibalism will be the norm for the last fifty years of the human species. We hit the point of no return sometime back in 2012 when wealthy elites denied even the existence of global climate change. They refused to tolerate anything that cut into their profits from oil and gas drilling. Their selfishness doomed the human species.

When the malarial death zones spread up into the areas above Wonderland, we will need to seal Wonderland off from the world above to prevent mosquito larvae from entering Wonderland. I am already making preparations for that day. We are fortunate that all of Wonderland's water percolates through layers of soil before getting here. The soil prevents mosquito larvae from getting into Wonderland via water. The only possible entrances are the Rabbit Hole and the Looking Glass of Pale Realm. The White King won't like it, but we will have to destroy that anique mirror in his study. It has a twin in an old house somewhere in England. It would be a good idea to destroy the twin mirror as well." I watched the continents on the 3D globe on Hatter's computer screen slowly cover with red depicting uninhabital zones.

Hatter took me back to a desolate, wind-swept dust desert located somewhere in North Dakota. "This is the way much of the world ends," said Hatter. There were not even fracking drilling rigs visible in this spot. "This is what happens when the groundwater is poisoned and there is no rain." North Dakota had once been endless plains of wheat. There in the dim twilight of evening, Hatter and I stood watching the dust devils dance across the barren nothingness.

The End

This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights.

Version 5

 

Chapter 15: Author's Notes

"Wastelands" completes the timeline for the alternate universe stories of a modern, American Alice. There is one story, "Things That Came," which takes place chronologically after "Wastelands." I doubt that there will be any more alternate universe stories. I can no longer justify the amount of effort and time that the stories take to write.

"Wastelands" was perhaps my first attempt at science fiction and was an homage to Jack London's "The Iron Heel." Several of the chapter titles were taken from "The Iron Heel." I seriously doubt that anyone noticed. "The Iron Heel" is from that portion of Jack London's work that is rarely taught in high schools or universities.

For a long time, I thought that my portrayal of Alice as a modern-day Robin Hood was unique. Imagine my surprise when halfway through writing "Wastelands" I stumbled across the comic book hero "The Green Arrow." I do think that my modern American Alice would make quite a comic book heroine.

I will never write a fanfiction for "Madness Returns." Quite a few of the "Madness Returns" fanfictions strike me as "trollfics" which are written with the deliberate intent of offending. Sadism, domination, near-rape scenes. It isn't the explicit sex of the scenes which bothers me. It's the apparent joy of the authors in portraying scenes of such viciousness and cruelty.

-Nikki Little on November 24, 2012


	8. Things That Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the age of 450, Alice contemplates the world above. Alternate Universe: a modern, American Alice in a real Wonderland.

Things that Came

by Nikki Little

 

Creatures that live in Wonderland are blessed with an extraordinarily long life if they happened to begin living here early enough in their lives. Hatter was the one who discovered the effect. The flowers that covered the roof of Wonderland and light our world turned out to be the source of all that was strange and wonderful about the place. The flowers were phosphorescent and grew in great patches of a single color, but came in many hues. Pastel blue, pastel green, pastel pink, pastel yellow, and numerous other pastel colors. The roof of Wonderland was a riot of colors and glowed when the world above had daylight. The flowers were also the source of our longevity.

As the water trickled down from the roof when it rained in the world above, it picked up from the flowers an unknown chemical that not only greatly extended life, but suppressed cancer and nearly all infectious diseases. The common cold was unknown in Wonderland. Hatter discovered that it took about thirty years of non-stop exposure to this chemical to have its effect of greatly slowing the aging process. A lot of my old friends in Wonderland are now gone. It has been over 400 years since I arrived in Wonderland. Hatter was the first to go. He was followed by the Gnome Elder, Mr. White, Bill McGill, Caterpillar, the March Hare, and the Dormouse. Of my old friends, only two remain. Cheshire, stiff and creaky, is no longer spry enough for hunting and relies on underwater traps designed by Hatter ages ago to catch his dinner. Arianne, thanks to Rhadamanthus, has aged at the same rate as me. The White Chess pieces are nearly ageless, but I rarely see them as they almost never venture outside Pale Realm.

The world above is completely devoid of humans. Global climate change wreaked havoc on the food supply, spread malaria across the globe, and melted the ice caps raising the sea level enough to inundate low-lying islands and coastal areas. The stupid wars that people in the world above were always fighting completed the destruction. Whole areas in Asia are lifeless due to radioactive accidents and the handful of nuclear explosive devices that were used. What's left of Africa is nearly all desert. The map of the world has greatly changed, and without people, there are, of course, no national boundaries anymore. The scourge of malaria didn't just wipe out the humans, it killed nearly all animal life. For two and a half centuries we in Wonderland feared to travel uptop for even the briefest time. Then, a full century after the last radio station went silent, the moment came for Arianne and I to chance a trip to the world above.

We found a world covered by plants and barren wastelands. Buildings that still existed were covered by plants in the same manner as small trees and fences had been covered by Kudzu in the American South in the twenty-first century. The wastelands looked like the surface of Mars. Land animals were nonexistent. Even insects were almost entirely gone. Arianne and I sat on bluff covered by a meadow, and a honeybee flew up in front of Arianne. It was the only living creature we saw that wasn't a plant. Unafraid, Arianne held out her hand and the honeybee briefly lit on her fingertips before flying away. The meek had inherited the earth.

 

The End

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This story is based on the characters created by American McGee. EA (Electronic Arts) owns the copyrights. 

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Version 2


	9. Sources List for "The Second Sword"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> List of sources for "The Second Sword."

Chapter 39: Sources List

 

Chapter 01: "The Cascade"

No sources consulted.

Chapter 02: "The Pool of Fire"

Wikipedia entry on U.S. Senate: photograph of 110th U.S. Senate.

Chapter 03: "Descent"

No sources consulted.

Chapter 04: "The Vestibule of Hell"

No sources consulted.

Chapter 05: "Minos"

No sources consulted.

Chapter 06:

 

Chapter 07:

 

Chapter 08:

 

Chapter 09:

 

Chapter 10:

 

Chapter 11:

 

Chapter 12:

 

Chapter 13:

 

Chapter 14:

 

Chapter 15:

 

Chapter 16:

 

Chapter 17:

 

Chapter 18:

 

Chapter 19:

 

Chapter 20: "The Jailers"

The Prison-Industrial Complex   
by Eric Schlosser / December 1998

Prison Population and Incarceration Rate -- 2007 Rankings  
The World Factbook  
Source: United Nations Development Program

Inmate Count in U.S. Dwarfs Other Nations'   
by Adam Liptak / April 23, 2008 

Incarceration Nation: The Rise of a Prison-Industrial Complex   
by Andrew Bosworth / November 8, 2008 

Made in the U.S.A. ... By Convicts   
By Peter Gilmore 

Look for that Prison Label   
by Julie Light / June 2000 

The Prison Industry: Capitalist Punishment   
by Julie Light / October 28, 1999 

Facts: Top 150 Unjust 3-Strike Stories   
Johnny Quirino   
George Anderson   
Richard Morgan   
Ruben Arriaga   
Mark A. Bishop   
Ray Anthony Means   
Edward Parsons 

25 Years for a Slice of Pizza   
New York Times / March 5, 1995 

25 Years to Life for Petty Crime   
by Martha Bellisle of the Associated Press /1999 

November 18: Man Facing '3 Strikes' Sentence Found Dead with Girlfriend   
Associated Press - Sacramento / November 18, 1999 

Feb 1st: Two Jurors Tossed from Panel for Refusing to be part of Process of to Give Life Sentence for $300 Bike Theft  
by Wayne Wilson / Sacramento Bee / February 2, 2000 

Prison Labor Cheats Society   
U-Wire / Los Angeles / Courtesy of Daily Bruin

Top Court Upholds '3 Strikes': Justices Allow 25-Year-To-Life Terms for Shoplifting   
by Bob Egelko / San Francisco Chronicle / March 6, 2003 

Life in Prison for Shoplifting: Cruel and Unusual Punishment   
By Erwin Chemerinsky / Winter 2004 / American Bar Association / Human Rights   
Magazine 

Senate Schumer Website at www dot senate dot gov / Biography of Senator Charles E. Schumer of New York

Wikipedia Entry on "Les Miserables" by Victor Hugo

Schumer and D'Amato Try to Out-Tough Each Other On Crime  
By James Dao / New York Times / September 25, 1998 

 

Chapter 21:

 

Chapter 22: "The False Witnesses"

Wikipedia: Dracunculiasis (Redirected from "Guinea Worm")

Wikipedia: Lucille Ball

Wikipedia: Dalton Trumbo

"Religious Tolerance" website. MVMO ritual abuse cases. Bakersfield / Kern County, California. By B. A. Robinson and copyrighted by Ontario Consultants on Religious Tolerance.

"Lives Ruined Because Lessons Ignored" by Andrew Schneider and Mike Barber. Seattle Post Intelligencer on Friday, February 27, 1998.

"The Day Care Child Sex Abuse Phenomenon" by Bob Chatelle. Notes on a conference held at the Harvard Law School on November 17, 2000. The conference contained three panels: "Stories of the Accused," "The Role of Culture, the Legal System, and the Experts," and "Where Do We Go From Here?"

"Nursing Suspicion: A climate of fear and paranoia is making men wary of joining the childcare profession." By Julian Grenier on the Spiked-Online website on Friday, 13 June 2003. This article concerns the childcare profession in the United Kingdom. "Spiked" is a British website.

"The Nightmare of the Respected Teacher Falsely Accused of Assaulting a Teenage Boy" on the Daily Mail on March 20, 2007. The author's name cannot be found on the article. Currently showing up in Google searches in the archives of pressman dot com.

"Falsely Accused" in NEA Today in the October 2006 issue by Michael D. Simpson.

"False Accusation Leads to Tragedy in Virginia City" by Timothy Dwyer in the Washington Post of February 15, 2004.

"France - Teacher Who Hanged Himself - Pupil Admits He Lied" by Johnny Summerton on October 26, 2008 on Buzzle dot com.

Wikipedia: Uyghur Captives in Guantanamo

"17 Innocent Guantanamo Detainees Remain Imprisoned as Bush Administration Continues Stall Tactics" as a press release from the Center for Constitutional Rights at ccrjustice dot org. Not used in story because the events described occur after the chronological date of the events in the chapter of the story.

"False Rape Accusations Are Not Rare" by admin on December 4, 2005 on billoblog dot com. Well-footnoted.

"False Accusations of Rape" at angryharry dot com. A blog by an ex-police officer who has an anti-feminist axe to grind. Paradoxically, it contains an absolutely haunting description of the one rape case this officer had that he believed to be real.

"Research Shows False Accusations of Rape Common" by Marc E. Angelucci, a public interest attorney in Los Angeles. Printed in the Los Angeles Daily Journal and San Francisco Daily Journal on September 15, 2004. Found posted on the blog glennsacks dot com.

 

Chapter 23:

 

Chapter 24:

 

Chapter 25: “The Cultists”

Wikipedia: “Prosperity Theology.”

“The Harmful Teachings of Kenneth and Gloria Copeland” by Cedric Hohnstadt, August 2004. Found on www dot cedricstudio dot com.

“Relatives of Televangelist Prosper.” On Religion News Blog, Amsterdam, Netherland. July 27, 2008 News Summary. Found on www dot religionnewsblog dot com.

“Hard Questions for Prosperity Gospel” by Armen Keteyian. Newark, Texas, January 29, 2008. Now found on www dot cbsnews dot com.

“The FundamentaList” (No. 8) by Sarah Posner on November 7, 2007. Now found on www dot un2 dot org.

“Cult or Christianity? World Changers promises financial blessings to the faithful, but many leave disillusioned” by Rick Sherrell on December 6, 1997. Found at www dot apologeticsindex dot org.

“Is the Prosperity Gospel Prospering?” Unsigned article posted on February 27, 2006. Found at www dot religionlink dot com.

“The Way International: Christian or Cult?” By Biblical Discernment Ministries. Article revised November 2001. Found at www dot rapidnet dot com.

“Mind Control in The Way International and the Poisoning of Families” by Dr. John P. Juedes. Copyright 1998. Found at empirenet dot com.

“Joel Osteen and the Prosperity Gospel” by Dr. Gary Gillery, pastor for Southern View Chapel. Republished at apprising dot org by Ken Silva with permission. Additional source added after writing Chapter 25.

“Apologetics Index: Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS).” Newspaper clippings with source listed. Found at apologeticsindex dot org.

“Three-wives Teaching Destroys Families” by Roger H. Hoole in the Salt Lake Tribune on June 11, 2005 in the Opinion pages.

“Three Wives Will Guarantee You a Place in Paradise” by Julian Coman. Posted in the Daily Telegraph of the United Kingdom on October 19, 2003. Website is www dot telegraph dot co dot uk.

“Cult Stories Enough to Make You Want to Cry” by Linda Valdez of The Arizona Republic on May 1, 2005. Website is www dot azcentral dot com.

Wikipedia: “Warren Jeffs.” Accessed on July 31, 2009.

Wikipedia: “White Supremacy.” Accessed on July 23, 2009.

Wikipedia: “Caste.” Accessed on July 27, 2009.

Wikipedia: “Aryan Nations.” Accessed on June 2, 2009.

Wikipedia: “Hakko Ichiu.” Accessed on July, 2009. 

 

Chapter 26:

 

Chapter 27:

 

Chapter 28: "Medusa"

Wikipedia: "Acid throwing"

Wikipedia: "Honor killing"

Wikipedia: "War rape"

Wikipedia: "Serial killer"

Wikipedia: "Suicide attack"

Wikipedia: "War in Darfur"

Wikipedia: "List of war crimes"

Wikipedia: "List of serial killers by country" -- United States section

Wikipedia: "Hillside Strangler"

Wikipedia: "Aileen Wuornos"

Wikipedia: "Female Genital Cutting" -- Information from the World Health Organization

Mauritanian "Gavage" (Force-feeding): YouTube video identified as from worldstarhiphop.com. Source could be National Geographic.

Mauritanian "Gavage" (Force-feeding): YouTube video under the title "Force feeding in Mauritania - CBC TV report."

Mauritanian "Gavage" (Force-feeding): YouTube video identified as "Africa Uncovered - Mauritania: Fat or Fiction - 11 August 08 - Part 1." An AlJazeeraEnglish documentary. There is a part 2 to this documentary.

"Saudi Woman killed for chatting on Facebook" by Damien McElroy. Published in "Telegraph" on March 31, 2008.

"Speaking for the Silenced" by Kaitlin Borker. Sojourners Magazine, September-October 2009, pages 46-47, and 49. A review of the film "The Stoning of Soraya M."

DVD: "The Stoning of Soraya M."

A&E Biography: "Aileen Wuornos." This documentary is available on YouTube.

This chapter would not have been possible without Wikipedia. All too often, my most desired source for a subject was a scholarly book from a university press costing more than $100.00 US. I am not independently wealthy. Such books are unaffordable to me. Newspaper articles which I wanted to use often required the payment of a subscription fee to see them. It seems that information in the U.S. in general is disappearing behind a paywall. I could have tried going to the local university library, but it is so overcrowded and lacking in space that it was truly my last resort. If I had lived in a larger city, a university library or a public research library would have been my best options. --Nikki

 

Chapter 29:

 

Chapter 30:

 

Chapter 31:

 

Chapter 32:

 

Chapter 33:

 

Chapter 34:

 

Chapter 35:

 

Chapter 36:

 

Chapter 37:

 

Chapter 38:

 

All Chapters:

"The Divine Comedy" by Dante Alighieri

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I will upload updates of this chapter as I complete bibliographies for each chapter one-by-one. As fanfiction dot net does not permit the posting of URL links, this is going to be difficult. The sources will be posted the old-fashioned way with the name of the publication, date, author, and page number. You will have to use Google or some other search engine to find the listed sources. --Nikki

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Last Chapter Sources List Added: Chapter 25: “The Cultists” on April 7, 2017.


End file.
